


Sixteen Candles

by slpblue



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Peterick, Slow Burn, Vampire Pete Wentz, Vampires, Violence, honestly it's so slow what i am doing to myself, it's only like two paragraphs, like sloooowwww burrrrnnnn, there's like some low key petekey but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 98,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slpblue/pseuds/slpblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know the rundown: Pete's a vampire, Chicago's a mess, and Peterick's the ship.  The usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear things up: I know that these aren't the real age differences for them, but in the fic Pete's 21, and Brendon and Patrick are 16. For now.

**PART I: The Monster That You See**

Pete decides that this is what he gets, really, for being friends with sketchy high school kids. If he had just stayed within his own fucking age demographic and wasn't constantly being called off campus in the middle of the night he might not be here right now. Something lurks in the back of Brendon's eyes that he really doesn't like, and his friend's hands are twisted so tightly into Pete's hoodie he's pretty sure that if Brendon were to pull any more at the fabric his head would pop off. Gruesome as that is, that would still be preferable to the alternate.

Because Brendon fucking Urie is a fucking vampire and Pete is at least eighty percent sure he's going to die. Well. "Die."

_What the hell happened to my day that I ended up here?_ Pete thinks wildly, then realizes it probably has something to do with the fact that he was wandering the streets at night on Brendon's whim. And if he's being _completely_ honest, this really all started last week.

Pete was doing nothing but minding his own business, humming tunelessly and straightening his hair, when Brendon called. Pete rolled his tired eyes as his friend's number flashed on the screen but picked up the phone anyway. It was 5:23 am and Pete figured that he couldn't really be mad at Brendon for calling when he probably knew he was awake anyway, because really when did Pete ever sleep.

"What's up?" he asked, trying to decide if attempting to do his hair and talk on the phone at the same time was a good idea.

"Um. Pete. Hey." Usually Brendon sounded at least eight times as cocky and half as awake as he did then, so Pete decided to put the straightener down for now.

"Hey." Pete waited for Brendon to speak.

"So, um. I actually might need your help. Just a little." Pete almost laughed out loud at that. Brendon, needing his _help_? Oh god, this was too good to be true.

"Okay," Pete replied, leaning forward onto the bathroom counter. He grinned and didn't say anything else, almost able to keep a snicker from escaping past his lips.

"This isn't funny," Brendon snapped. Pete could just imagine the outrage on his face.

"It kind of is, actually."

"Pete, I'm alone in the city in the middle of the fucking night could you please take this a little more seriously."

Pete went still, felt his face pale. "What," he whispered, not really a question.

"You heard me," Brendon hissed, and the way that he sounded so quiet all of sudden made Pete's blood run chill with ice. It was like he was trying to _hide_ , which of course would be impossible, not when he smelled so strongly of life and blood and food...

"Oh my god, Brendon. What the fuck. What the actual fuck, man. Where are you. I'll get you. What. The. _Hell_."

"Would you just calm down?" To his credit, Brendon hid the hysteria in his voice rather well. "You don't have to get me. That would be stupid. No, just. Just. I don't know." His voice grew even softer, a mere sigh against Pete's ear. "I guess I wanted to hear a familiar voice again."

"Brendon..." Pete didn't know what to say.

His friend was quiet on the other end of the phone except for the heavy rasp of his breathing. Pete clenched his fingers. He could really imagine Brendon's face now. Wide and terrified, salty and slick with sweat. Eyes faintly glimmering in whatever darkness he was vainly trying to hide in--they can see in the dark.

"But why," Pete started, then swallowed. "Why did you say you needed my help if you're not even going to let me. Let me come get you."

Brendon was so silent on the other end of the line Pete worried that he'd hung up, but after a few seconds he took a deep breath. "Look, I don't--Pete _fuck_. I think they're here. Oh my god." Pete could hear the tears in Brendon's words, his muffled breath as he covered his mouth with his hand.

"Brendon," Pete cried. "Brendon." He reached up to rake his hand through his hair, tugging on a handful as if that would somehow help his younger friend.

" _Shut. The fuck. Up_." His words could barely be classified as a whisper. And now Pete could hear them too, the voices that murmured through the phone, soft and full of promises. Pete found himself leaning into his cell, transfixed on the voices he could only barely hear. There was a moment of silence, and then they started back up again before moving away entirely. Something in Pete's chest ached when they faded into the quiet.

There were a few tense moments of total silence before Pete heard Brendon let out all of his breath at once. "I think they're gone," he muttered.

Pete's hand fell back to the counter, and he cursed as his finger came into contact with the flat iron he had long since forgotten about. "Shit."

"What?" A note of hysteria crept back into Brendon's voice.

"Not you. I burned myself."

"What?" he repeated.

"On...my straightener."

Brendon huffed out a laugh. "Dumb ass." Pete grinned. "I um. I changed my mind. You can come get me now."

Pete yanked the plug from the wall-- _no need to burn the whole damn dorm down_ \--as Brendon told him the address. "I'm coming."

* * *

The sky wasn't quite lit up by the time they got back to campus, gray and moody and definitely not nighttime anymore, but not quite day yet either. Pete punched in the code for the gates and they swung open with a sigh, as if annoyed to be moving this early. He pulled his car into his parking space, not relaxing until he started to see the sun peek over the edge of the horizon a minute later.

Brendon sat awkwardly in the passenger seat, looking everywhere but at Pete. Neither of them made a move to get out of the car. Pete caught a glance of himself in the rear view mirror and grimaced at the state of his hair. He was still wearing yesterday's eyeliner and he looked like shit, but he wasn't getting out of that car until Brendon explained himself. Twisting in his seat until one of his legs was pulled up under his chin and his back was pressed against the window, Pete stared at Brendon. Might as well get comfortable. His younger friend fidgeted, squeezed his dark eyes shut as if he hoped Pete would be gone when he opened them again. No such luck, so he raised his sheepish gaze and started speaking.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I don't really know what I--what I was doing."

A frown grew on Pete's face, but he remained silent.

"Um. Thanks. For getting me. Yeah." Brendon bit his bottom lip.

Pete shook his head. "You dumb fuck," he said at last. "What the hell were you thinking? You know how dangerous Chicago is at night."

"I know," Brendon mumbled, not meeting Pete's gaze again. "I'm sorry."

Another minute of silence.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So what were you doing, dumb ass. Why'd I have to go off campus in the middle of the night to come keep you from getting fucking killed or w--or worse."

"I..." Brendon seemed at a loss for words. "I don't...really...know." He bit his lip again, face twisted into a grimace like even he knew his answer was terrible.

Pete stared incredulously at him. "That's the shittiest excuse I've heard. At this rate you can forget college, you won't even make it through high school."

"Well it's true," Brendon snapped back. "I don't know, I just felt like I had to. I couldn't stop myself. And I don't..." he trailed off, frowning.

"Don't what?" Pete asked impatiently.

Brendon looked confused. "What?"

"Never mind," Pete growled. Reaching behind him for the door handle, he got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. What the hell had Brendon been thinking? Apparently he didn't even know. Punk ass kid. This is why he shouldn't be friends with stupid high schoolers. He rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes, sighing.

The heavy thud of the passenger door closing signaled Brendon's exit of the vehicle, and knowing that the kid would follow him, Pete headed back to his dorm without a word.

* * *

The next time Brendon called Pete in the middle of the night he didn't seem nearly so terrified.

"Hello Pete," he said, voice smooth and low. It was sleepy sounding without it seeming like Brendon was actually tired. This was more the Brendon that Pete was used to.

"Uh, hey, Brendon. Can it wait? I was asleep." Pete wasn't even lying this time. He really had been asleep, for once.

"Not really."

"Okay..."

"I need a favor, Pete." His voice was unusually silky, words sliding into Pete's head and curling lazily around his brain; Pete found himself hanging on Brendon's every word.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Come meet me downtown. There's something that we need to do."

Pete found himself nodding. "Oka--wait, what? Right now?" He glanced at his alarm clock. 3:12. Damn, it was like the whole world was against him getting more than three hours of sleep per night.

"Right now," Brendon agreed.

Pete sighed, curling his sheets tighter around himself. He could feel sleep moving farther and farther from his grasp with each breath of wakefulness he took. And...it was gone. "I'm really tired, Bren."

"Right. Now," he repeated, a little firmer but still pleasant.

Pete shot up in bed. "Yeah I...I'm coming. Where are you?" He rolled off his mattress and struggled into a pair of skinny jeans he pulled from the floor, cradling his phone awkwardly in the crook of his neck.

"You know where. We've met here before," Brendon replied cryptically.

"Yeah okay. Sure. I'll be there in a few," Pete promised. Brendon disconnected the call.

Pete hardly spared a glace for the view outside his window, instead fumbling his way into a red hoodie he found crumpled by the door. He gave his reflection a once-over in the mirror, swiping a hand through his mostly straight hair before snatching his keys off his desk and heading out into the hallway. Padding through the building, past doors hiding rooms full of sleeping college students, Pete didn't even wonder why he was doing this. Just knew he needed to. Brendon wanted him to. So he was.

Reaching the door, past which was outside and night and a combination Pete would never have ventured into normally, Pete dropped his shoes to the floor and slipped into them. Fully dressed, he pushed past the door and then he was outside. The air stung the back of his throat when he took a deep breath in through his nose, so he switched to breathing through his mouth instead. He shivered the way to his car, starting it up with a casual twist of his wrist. It grumbled to life, sputtering as if it couldn't believe Pete had the nerve to wake it up this late--early. Whichever.

Gravel crunched under the tires as Pete pulled out of campus, leaving the safety of the walled-in university behind. Pete didn't exactly know what Chicago's streets were like at night, but even so they seemed quiet to him. Which he ignored, as much as some instinctual feeling deep in his gut was screaming at him to turn the _fuck_ around, right now, and go back to your room while you still can. Brendon's words tapped him lazily on the shoulder, gaining his attention, then assured him that there was nothing to worry about just keep driving it'll be fine.

It didn't take long for Pete to pull up to the old building he'd picked Brendon up at several days ago. Sure, it was sketchy as hell and even more terrifying at night but that didn't dissuade him from practically leaping out of the car and heading straight for the door.

Before he got there, however, Brendon materialized at his side, pale as a sheet. He tutted. "Oh, Pete. You don't need to go inside."

Pete started at the sudden appearance of his friend. "No? Then where are we..." he trailed off, slowing his quick pace to a stop as he took in Brendon's appearance.

The teen looked very dapper in a pristine white three piece suit. His dark hair fell softly over his ears, cleaner than Pete had ever seen it, under a white bowler hat. His shoes were shined within an inch of their lives and he was wearing a fucking _ascot_. White gloves buttoned snugly over his hands, which he used to brush an imaginary piece of lint off of his immaculate clothing before setting a hand delicately on the small of Pete's back and leading him towards an alley on the side of the building. A nearby streetlight flickered out.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Pete asked, incredulous. As dark as it was outside, especially with the extinguishing of that streetlight, Brendon's suit stuck out like a sore thumb, nearly shining with its own glow. Pete wouldn't be surprised if he pulled a cane or umbrella out and started swinging it in a circle like a bored Victorian gentleman.

Brendon smiled thinly, lips pressed together. "My uniform." They entered the alley, and at last something about this situation finally pulled at Pete's stomach enough for him to stop walking and extract himself from Brendon's reach.

"Wait. Why. Brendon. What the _hell_ are we doing here. We've got to get back right now, before--before something finds us and--and--"

Brendon shook his head. Something swirled in the depths of his eyes and Pete felt himself relax again. "It's fine Pete. There's no need to worry. Let's just...hang out for a bit." He leaned gingerly against the brick wall behind him, hardly letting his back come into contact with it, as if worried about dirtying his suit.

"I guess if--if you say so." Pete leaned against the wall next to his friend and watched with interest as he removed his glove with graceful fingers. Brendon pulled gently at the button, slid it through the button hole, and tugged at the end of each finger before slipping it off his hand and into the inner pocket of his jacket. The other glove soon followed. Even his fingernails looked perfect, shiny and evenly filed. Pete shook his head, grinning. "Dude, what's with the makeover?"

Brendon didn't reply, instead reaching up to grasp at his hat, lift it off his head. He glanced distastefully at it for a moment before simply tossing it away down the alley. It twirled away and was swallowed by the darkness. Brendon seemed to relax a bit then, running a hand through his hair, lifting it away from the sides of his face. Pete froze, eyes fixated on his friend's ear. It wasn't obvious yet--he was still too young for that--but there was no mistaking it. Brendon's ears curved gently into a small point before swooping back down to meet his jaw.

"Brendon," Pete croaked. Something clutched at his heart, which had begun pounding frantically.

"Is there a problem?" Brendon crooned, lips finally parting in a smile. His pointed teeth flashed white in the dark, lateral incisors long, canines longer.

"Holy shit." Pete scrambled away from the vampire, wondering how he hadn't noticed the ugly red wound on his neck before, four marks distinctly in the shape of a bite.

"Now now, Pete," Brendon murmured into his ear, inexplicably appearing behind him. He lay a hand on Pete's shoulder. "You don't need to run. It's just me."

Pete twisted away from Brendon's vice-like grip. "Get the fuck away from me," he gasped, stumbling a few feet before breaking into a sprint towards the mouth of the alley. But Brendon was in front of him again, smacking a hand into his chest and slamming him up against the wall. "Get...away," Pete wheezed, winded from the impact to his chest.

Brendon merely brought his other hand up to grip Pete's hoodie and snarled. _Holy fucking shit god damn fuck I'm going to die_ , Pete thought wildly.

And that's how he ended up here, in a dank and smelly alley, with one of his best friends about to sink his fangs into his neck and end his life. Pete struggles in a weak attempt to free himself, but Brendon just pushes him harder into the wall until the pressure on his chest is nearly unbearable.

"Please," Pete begs, his voice a mere rasp. "Don't--Bren. Please."

Brendon just hisses in reply, a sound that shouldn't rightfully be able to pass from human lips.

"You don't have to do this." Pete's voice grates at his throat, and he's ashamed at the tears leaking hot and salty from his eyes.

"I do, actually," Brendon breathes, eyes watching the path of one of Pete's tears as if he's never seen anyone cry before, before flicking his gaze back up to meet Pete's. "You have no idea how it works around here, boy." His eyes grow hard, pupils expanding until even the whites of his eyes have been swallowed by black. "You don't understand."

Even though Pete knows it's hopeless, he kicks out at Brendon, swinging his arms wildly. The vampire doesn't so much as flinch, Pete's blows bouncing harmlessly off him. He starts crying harder.

Slowly, with maddening grace, Brendon brings his mouth close to Pete's neck, breath even colder than the chilly night air. Goosebumps race along his neck, and Pete starts shaking, a combination of shivers and spasms of fear. Soft lips meet Pete's skin, and Brendon's tongue reaches out to graze his neck. Brendon takes him time, wetting Pete's skin with his saliva. His fingers slide up to card through the back of Pete's hair. Their bodies are pressed flush against each other. A new kind of tingling races down Pete's spine. He definitely hadn't expected this to be so intimate, so...erotic. Brendon's lips still move slowly, methodically, and Pete wonders if he plans to give him a hickey before he eats him.

Those thoughts and more--every single fucking thought he has, actually--are dashed from his mind when Brendon's sharp teeth tear into his skin. Pete doesn't just cry out--he screams. The pain is unbearable. He can feel the pulse of his blood being drawn from his carotid artery. Dark spots dance in his vision. But the agony doesn't recede. If anything it grows worse.

Pete doesn't have the energy to fight him anymore, to even try. His screaming grows hoarse and weak. Even his sobs are no longer strong. Tears streak silently down his face. If it weren't for Brendon's grip on his clothes, Pete would have slid to the ground ages ago.

Brendon gasps as he pulls away from Pete's neck. His pale face is painted in blood; it dribbles down his chin to blemish his expensive-looking suit. There's even a smudge of it on his nose, god knows how it got there. He smiles bitterly, teeth stained crimson. "You don't know," he whispers against Pete's face, breath tickling his skin, "the things I have to do. What it's like to have so much power racing in your veins. How _good_ this feels, to drain someone of life. But you will." He brings his own wrist up to his face, about to slice open his veins. Pete's sluggish brain remembers learning something once about blood and becoming a vampire, but his molasses-slow thoughts don't quite come to the terrifying conclusion that Brendon is about to turn him before the shot rings out, catching Brendon in the chest and spinning him away from Pete.

Immediately Pete slumps to the ground, no longer supported by his ex-friend's grip. He notices faintly that Brendon clutches at his chest, blood spreading rapidly from his wound. He hisses down the alleyway, and now Pete can hear voices. Shouting. His vision swims. Figures stand at the end of the alley. Yelling at the vampire who still clutches at his gunshot wound. Footsteps advance. Then slow. Pete shakes his head, because there's no way that Brendon has suddenly split into multiple people. Well. Actually he doesn't know. Maybe vampires can do that. Wait, no. There's just more of them now, all dressed up in pristine suits and with dangerous teeth. Shit.

He struggles to sit up, push himself off the ground and get away from the vampires, but just ends up falling flat on his face, woozy. The pain in his neck flares again, and he cries out. He grasps at nothing, trying to pull himself along the ground. Loose gravel scatters beneath his fingertips. He can't get a grip on anything. His muscles won't work. Feel like spaghetti. There are people at the end of the alley. They're pointing at him. Maybe. He's not sure. They waver, made of water and mist, dissipating before his eyes can focus on them.

Gunshots ring out, echoing harshly. Flashes of light. Pete closes his eyes, can't seem to open them again. There's some more yelling. Fire. He feels like he's on fire. Burning. It hurts so fucking much.

Pete gasps for air; he's forgotten how to breathe. Mouth gaping like a fish asphyxiating. Another wave of pain, and the air in his lungs leaves with a whoosh. He sucks oxygen back in. God damn it. This is not how he wanted to die, bleeding out in a random side street, tricked out into the night by a vampire who happened to know his phone number.

Fingers grasp his clothing, yank him to his feet. Pete can barely manage a whimper. He no longer cares if he's crying. There's a cold hand against his neck. _Please god no._ He doesn't want to be taken by them.

A scuffle, and he falls back to the ground, limp. The impact jars his skull, and he's able to force his eyes open. A different set of hands pull under his armpits, drag him away from the sound of fighting. A hazy face floats into view. All Pete can make out are eyes, bluegreenbrown eyes--how the fuck can one pair of eyes be every color--but he doesn't care because they're not black. They're human.

A voice, fuzzy in his ears. Pete stares blankly up at the person holding him. Their voice grows louder. They're yelling. Pete still can't understand them, closes his eyes again. He's tired.

He feels something hit the side of his face, and his eyes slide open again. Did they just slap him?

This time Pete can make out faint words. "Don't...need to stay...hear me?"

All Pete can do in reply is cough, a wet sound that coats his throat in something that doesn't make it feel as dry anymore, but that he also thinks probably isn't a very good thing. He groans. Forget fire. He's been dipped in a vat of lava, again and again, each layer of skin and muscle peeled away and setting his nerve endings alight. _Why does it hurt so much?_ he thinks weakly. Or maybe he said it out loud, because the person is saying something again.

And they're moving. Probably. Pete isn't at all sure he can trust his own senses anymore. But he hears what he thinks is a car door opening and closing. He's not in a car yet. His movement is far too jolting for that. He's still being dragged.

More shouting. God damn it why does everyone have to be so loud can't they shut the hell up for one fucking minute. Screams. They grow closer. Then fainter again. Pete thinks he might be inside now. He's really not sure. But he knows he feels something prick at the veins in his arm. Has he been taken by the vampires after all? Are they finishing him off? What--

He doesn't complete his thoughts because they're swallowed by unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy. :)

Pete is not having a good time. He's not quite unconscious anymore, though he wishes he was. Prickling pain still twinges underneath his skin, and all he can see through his barely-open eyes are vague fuzzy shapes that swirl and don't seem to want to take form and don't make sense.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to move, to look around. He regrets it almost immediately. Surely someone must be fucking _stabbing_ him in the neck, because there's no other way that it could possibly hurt that much. He tries to curse, but all that really makes it past his lips are whispers and soft grunts, lungs not pushing hard enough past vocal cords to form real words.

When the pain subsides a bit, Pete notices that he's gently rocking, slight bumps jarring his body every now and then. Is he in a car, then? Something rubs on his neck; someone has quickly bandaged the deepest of the cuts. He feels sore all over, achy and more tired than he's ever felt, worse even than after three nights of no sleep.  He wants to cry; isn't even ashamed of it.  Doesn't care who's watching.  Almost wishes that Brendon had finished him off if this is the alternative.

He thinks he hears a voice, harsh against his ears, and then a pressure at his arm. Consciousness starts to ebb back in, and with it a new wave of agony. It's a few moments before Pete can make out anything being said to him, and even then it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

"Can you hear us? Damn, he lost a lot of blood."

"I'm surprised he's still alive.  Lucky we got there when we did."

"Fucking Dandies still managing to get kids out on the streets in the middle of the night. He looks like he from the university, too."

"He should have known not to leave."

"Well he couldn't exactly do anything about it if he was being compelled, could he? I know you felt the pull of that one. It was stronger than anything I've ever encountered."

"I don't see how it makes much of a differen--"

"Of course it makes a fucking difference! It means that we're not even safe inside anymore."

"I don't know why I don't just move somewhere safer."  Pete can practically _hear_ the eye roll.

A new voice cuts in, softer and distinctly feminine. "It's because you know if we weren't here the vamps would spread until it wasn't safe _anywhere._ Now, shut the fuck up, yeah? He's awake."

Pete groans. He feels his chest convulse, and he turns on his side to cough. Red-stained spit dribbles down the side of his face. Heat still courses through his veins, pounding into the back of his skull. It's unbearable.

A face swims into view, wide eyes brown. All Pete registers is that they are not the same eyes as whoever saved him. Disappointment swirls deep in his belly, which doesn't make sense. He didn't even know the person. The young girl in front of him now, maybe twenty years old, runs a hand through her cropped blonde hair and leans in closer to his face. "Hello? Can you tell us your name?"

"Nunnngghhhhh," Pete moans, squeezing his eyes shut again.

"Hey," she murmurs, "no, no, don't go back to sleep. What's your name?"

Pete struggles to speak; his lungs don't seem to want to work right. A wave of wooziness washes over him, and he gags.

"Shit," the girl mutters. "Joe, help me sit him up."

Strong hands pull at Pete's arms, tugging him into a sitting position. He tries to hold his head as still as possible; moving makes his skull pound and the wound in his neck throb. He thinks he might pass out. The person behind him--Joe?--leans Pete back until he's resting against his chest. Breaths come heavy and thick in his throat. But he feels more awake now; his vision starts to sharpen.  Interestingly, the roar of pain in his veins settles itself down to a dissatisfied rumble, curling up on itself and waiting for an opportunity when Pete's not prepared for it to strike.

"Better?" the girl asks.

Pete makes the most minute movement with his head he can manage. "Yeah..." he breathes.

She grins prettily. "Great.  What's your name?"

"P..." Pete swallows against the burning in his throat, changes his mind about what he wants to say. "Wa--er," he croaks.

The girl frowns, lips parted in preparation of a question, but Pete cuts her off before she can say anything. "Wa...ter," he repeats, gaining more control of his voice.

Understanding blooms on her face.  "Oh, oh sure."  She leans forward, taps someone in the passenger seat on the shoulder. "Hey, pass me some water, yeah?"

There's a crinkling sound as the person grabs a plastic water bottle, passes it into the girl's hand.  She twists off the cap and presses it to Pete's mouth.  Slowly she tips it forward, until the cool liquid splashes past his lips.  Pete swallows and sighs at the relief to his throat.  He's more clear-headed, and he gingerly sits up, gripping the seat when spots dance before his eyes.  Even if he's not really ready to sit up on his own, he could tell that Joe wasn't exactly loving the fact that he was laying all over him.

"Ah, fuck," he swears as the car rolls over a particularly rattling bump in the road.

"Nice to see you've got control of your voice back," the blonde teases.  She squints at him.  "I think you've got something..." she makes a vague gesture towards her eyes.

"Oh uh, no that's uh."  Pete can fell his face heating up.  Since when the fuck does he blush?  "That's...supposed to be there."

"Oh.  Right."  She looks very like she's trying very hard not to judge him for wearing makeup.  Pete realizes that she's not wearing any, which probably makes him the person in the car with the most on.  He glances around.  And who also probably spends the most time on their hair.

"Uh, yeah--yeah."  Pete clears his throat.  "I'm uh, Pete.  By the way."  He sounds like a dying old man, voice gravelly like a lifetime smoker, even though Pete's never touched a cigarette.

"Vienna," she supplies, eager to change the subject.  "And that's Joe" --she motions to the guy Pete had been leaning on-- "Grayson" --the driver, a slightly older man-- "and Patrick" --the passenger.

"Hey," Pete says weakly.  It's then that he notices IV in the crook of his elbow.  He stares at it.  "What..."

"Oh, um,  we gave you some meds," Vienna explains.  At the look on Pete's face she hurries to add,  "It's perfectly safe, I promise. Some stuff our leading vampire expert cooked up. It was just to help you get through the worst of the pain.  We don't have any blood on hand, but we weren't worried since it didn't look too serious--what do you think, Grayson?  Class two hemorrhaging?"

The driver hums in agreement.  "Yeah.  He's not too weak, just really pale, a bit woozy.  You can probably take the needle out now that we've unhooked him."  Pete realizes Grayson was the other one talking earlier.

Vienna nods and turns her attention back to Pete, reaching for his arm.  She pulls a bandage out of a first aid kit stashed under the seat.  "Sorry we had to wake you up, but we wanted to take you back to school--you're at the college right?--and we wanted to hear what you had to say first."  She shrugs apologetically.

"O--okay."  His gaze gravitates towards the mostly full water bottle laying between them.  "Ah, can I...?"

Vienna follows his gaze.  "Hm?  Oh yeah, help yourself."

Pete reaches for the water with his left hand, awkwardly twisting the cap off while Vienna fiddles with his arm.  She rubs the band aid over the sensitive skin on the inside of his elbow, looking up at him with an ironic smile.  "All better."

Finally managing to get the top off, Pete just nods at her before tipping the bottle back, gratefully switching it over to his right hand.  "Mm, careful," Vienna advises,  "You don't want to drink it too fast."

Pete couldn't care less about drinking it too fast, he's so damn thirsty, but when his stomach gurgles threateningly he reluctantly lowers the bottle.  There's not much left, but Pete's really not sure that he can drink it right now.  Seeing him eyeing the bottle, Vienna laughs lightly, before pulling from his grasp and downing the rest herself.  She crumples up the plastic, cracks the window, and throws it outside, ignoring Pete's protests.

"Sorry, but you really would have regretted drinking all of that,"  Vienna says, not looking at all sorry.

"Yeah, but you--you just threw it out the window--" Pete splutters.

The blonde's smiles is cruel.  "More for those bastards to clean up. They hate trash, anything dirty. I mean, you've seen the way they dress, yeah?"

Recalling the Dandies' spotless clothing, their delicate way of moving, and the way Brendon seemed to think that an unnoticeable amount of lint of his suit was worth the utmost care in removing, Pete has to agree with that conclusion. Vienna seems very bitter towards the vampires, more than anyone else he's ever met. She must be, to toss litter out of the window, doing everything in her power to make life a little less pleasant for the monsters overrunning their city. Even after all of that though, it's still a shitty first impression to give someone.

Pete tugs the sleeve of his hoodie back down, glances out the window. Few streetlights are lit, and they're the only people out on the road. It's eerie; Pete's skin crawls. He doesn't recognize where they are, which is strange.  Chicago has been his home all his life.

"It looks different at night," Vienna says softly, noting his gaze.  "It took me forever to learn my way around."

Pete stares, sure he must be misunderstanding her.  "You mean...you go out there willingly?"

She gives a half-smile, and Joe chuckles behind him.  Pete turns so that he's sitting facing forward and not blocking Joe from the conversation anymore.  "Yeah," Joe says.  "That's the glorious life we've chosen.  We're part of the Sixteen Candles Hunters' Agency.  Well, most of it, probably.  There's only like three other people or something. I dunno."

"Seven," the guy sitting shotgun grumbles.  It's the first thing Pete's heard him say.

"Aw, lighten up Pat," Vienna laughs.  "You don't have to be so serious all the time.  We're almost out of Dandy territory."

Patrick flips around in his seat until he's glaring at Vienna.  "Yeah, well almost doesn't mean we are, and after the Dandies comes the Clandistines so forgive me if I seem a little tense.  And my name's Patrick.  Not Pat."  His face twists.  "Pat's my mom's name."

"More like Sasstrick," Grayson mutters under his breath.

Patrick shoots him a look that says _fuck off_ better than words ever could, but Pete's not really paying attention.  He _knows_ this kid--he's the one that dragged him out of that alley. And yes, he's a kid, really, with a young face and cheeks still round and full.  He can't be more than sixteen, if that.  But Pete's not focused on his age.  He's more interested in his face and, to be specific, his eyes.  Sideburns nearly to the point of mutton chops inch down the sides of his cheeks, and red-blonde hair falls messily into his eyes, eyes that are every color--a thin star of brown in the inside of the iris that fades to a blue and green, or maybe a green and then blue.  Pete's not too sure.  He just knows they're fucking beautiful. And that they're looking at him, running up and down his body, tearing awkwardly away when their lines of sight meet. Patrick humphs and turns back in his seat so that he's facing forward again.

Something warm tangles itself in Pete's throat before he manages to clamp down on the feeling. Irrationally, Pete gives himself a once-over, checking his appearance to assure himself he is presentable. The knot loosens a bit when he realizes Patrick had probably only been staring at him because he was covered blood. Not because he was looking...for another reason. It coats Pete side, spilling down from his neck in a semi-dried smear that's flaking off in some places. It looks like someone had tried to wipe it off of him before they got distracted, because there are streaks drawn in it, smudged in the shapes of finger tracks. A line is drawn on his cheek, like someone with bloodied hands had cradled his head.  Gauze bandages stick with dried blood to his neck, and they pull if he turns his head too much.  He's scraped and bruised and probably-- _definitely_ looks like shit.

Pete attempts to pull himself from his thoughts; it's not easy. Thinking about Patrick looking at him makes him think of the blood; thinking of the blood makes him think about being bitten; thinking about being bitten makes him think about Brendon. Fear cracks down his spine when Pete realizes how close he came to dying. If it weren't for Patrick dragging him out of the fight back in that alleyway he--

"Pete?"  Vienna's looking at him curiously, and he realizes that she probably asked him something.

"Sorry--what?" Pete gives a sheepish smile.  He can't help but notice the way Vienna's eyes flick down to check his teeth before meeting his gaze again.  Irrationally, he clamps his mouth shut, runs his tongue over his canines.  Nothing's different.  It's probably an action that's become habit for the blonde after facing vampires for so long.

"I was just wondering what you were doing out tonight," she explains, mostly succeeding at keeping the annoyance out of her voice.  "Most people don't usually wander the city at after dark unless they have a death wish."

Something akin to shame flares in Pete's chest.  "I don't know what convinced me to do it, really.  Brend--my fri--the vampire he--he just asked me to come, and...I did."

Joe nods solemnly, and Grayson speaks up from the front seat.  "Yeah, we felt it, kid.  That vamp could compel like nothing I've ever seen before."

"He didn't even have to say anything," Joe muses. Vienna and Grayson make noises of thoughtful agreement.

"He's...he's stronger than Beckett," Patrick says quietly.

Everyone falls silent, and Pete wonders at the tension in the air.  Hoping to diffuse it before it gets any worse, he asks, "So...what's compel mean?"

Grayson gives a sharp bark of laughter.  "You're kidding, right kid?  Even if you're not a hunter you should know what compelling is.  Your mom never tell you stories of the vampires that would whisper sweet promises in your ear and then eat you if you misbehaved?"

"No," Pete mutters, feeling stupid.  It doesn't help that Grayson keeps calling him "kid".  Of course he should know what that was.  Everyone did.  Obviously.  It's a stupid question.  _He's_ stupid. Fuck. He can't do anything right. First he gets dragged out in the middle of the city by a vampire and almost eaten, then he proves just how worthless he is in front of his saviors. Maybe they should just let him out of the car here and leave him to fend for himself--

"It's just them suggesting things to you," Joe explains, breaking Pete out of his self-destructive thoughts.  "They tell you--or rather, 'strongly recommend' you to do something, and it seems so sensible that you do it anyway, even if it doesn't make sense. Most people can't resist it at all, although we've learned to do it a bit. But that new one..."

"Brendon," Pete supplies. "Brendon Urie."

"Right. I bet if Urie turned the full force of his charm on us we wouldn't stand a chance. At his level, it's practically mind control."

"Oh.  Yeah, he definitely did that to me."  Pete thinks back on his phone call.

"But how'd he get inside the campus?" Vienna wonders.  "And why'd he bring you all the way out here?"

"What?  No--he, he just called me.  On the phone.  I drove myself."  _Ah, fuck, my car._ He'll have to go get it in the morning. Probably have to walk all the way back to that building by himself.

Vienna gasps at the same time Joe lets out a curse.  "Fucking shit," he swears.  "That fucker is even more powerful than we thought."

"He really just compelled you over the phone?" Vienna demands.

Pete nods, wary.

The car is silent for a moment. Joe and Vienna seem to be having a conversation with just their eyes. Pete notices that Joe keeps sending worried glances Patrick's way.  On second observation, Pete realizes that Joe isn't very old, either.  Maybe around Patrick's age.  His face is just leaner, with scruffy hair that curls into his face, and his eyes are hard.  Joe puts a hand on the back of Patrick's seat, like he wants to say something, but lets his arm drop before he even comes close to touching him.

Irrationally, Pete longs to comfort the kid too.  Patrick seems so sweet, and his eyes are just. So. Damn. Beautiful. Pete doesn't think he'll ever get over them. Patrick's seemed uncomfortable the whole car ride, like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world than here, in the middle of vampire territory at whatever the fuck time it is.  He's too young for this.  _And you,_ Pete chastises himself.  _So stop thinking with your dick and start thinking with your head._

The silence stretches out.  "So," Pete exclaims again, partly because he hates the quiet when it's with people he doesn't know, mostly so he can force his mind to dwell on something else.  "How much longer?"  It hadn't taken this long to drive out here.

"Not long," Grayson reassures.  "I'm just taking the long way back, skirting areas that are known to be higher in vampire activity.  The college is actually pretty much between Dandy and Clandestine territory, so there's not much going on there usually.  They like to stay out of each other's hair."

Not wanting to seem stupid again, Pete just infers that Dandy and Clandestine are vampire groups or something.

Pete senses that conversation is about to falter again and searches for something to say before Patrick sits up suddenly in his seat, falling back when his seat belt locks.  "Goddamn seat belt," he curses, then pulls at it until he can sit up again.  "Grayson.  Up ahead, are those--"

"Yeah, I seem them," the older man mutters.  A few hundred feet in front of the car stand several figures, distinctly dressed in expensive suits.

"I thought we were out of Dandy territory," Joe says, leaning forward.

"We are," Grayson replies, grim.  The car slows.

Something uneasy pulls at Pete's stomach again.  "Maybe we should go another way," he suggests, apprehensive.  Patrick sinks low in his seat, grunts nervously.  How a grunt can sound nervous Pete doesn't know, but his does.  It's a cute grunt, small and-- _oh my god shut the fuck up he literally just grunted there are fucking_ vampires _up there get your priorities straight._

"Shit," Vienna hisses, as one of the figures blurs and disappears.  "I keep forgetting how fast they are.  That one's probably gone for reinforcements."

Joe shifts.  "They'll be back soo--"

Something lands on the hood of the car, and Pete jumps, regretting the movement when it sends sparks of pain flaring in his back again.  Patrick lets out a squeak from the front seat.  Grayson slams on the brakes, and they screech to a stop.  " _Fuck!_ " the driver shouts.  Pete doesn't get to see whatever made the noise before it scrambles onto the roof, but he can guess.  Correctly, he sees, as the vampire crawls all the way over the car and punches his way daintily in through the back window.  Pete has just enough time to think that anything looks dainty when you're wearing gloves, before a hand tangles itself into his hoodie and he's hauled out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I'm currently on like chapter seven in the writing process and the part in the story I'm at was probably going to be like chapter four? Like part one is originally planned to be five chapters but as far as I can tell it's going to be at least nine and wow this is turning out to be a lot longer than I thought--it's a monster. Haha, anyway, leave a comment on what you thought. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh please excuse my attempt at shoving a bunch of random band members/people that were in the music video into my story.

Glass scrapes at Pete's clothing, pulling at his hoodie and snagging his skinny jeans where they're frayed at the bottom. A shard catches at his ankle, but he doesn't notice the tiny prick of pain beyond the screaming at the wound in his neck. Blood seeps out of the hastily bandaged lacerations, and Pete falls slackly into the vampire's grip, unwilling to fight against it if it means that much pain. He hears yelling, which quickly recedes away.

Pete feels a prickling sensation in his wrist, and realizes with a spurt of indignation that the fucker has bitten him. He tries to pull away. These blood sucking sons of bitches just can't keep their teeth out of him for more than two seconds, can they. A wave of nausea crashes down over Pete, buckling his knees. All of the air in his lungs leaves with a whoosh, and he goes limp, now held up solely by the strength of his captor.

The Dandy carrying Pete gives out an impatient snarl at Pete's impressive impersonation of a sack of potatoes and tucks his other arm under Pete's legs, cradling him to his chest. He breathes in sharply, like he has to keep himself for going for Pete's neck right then and there, and takes off down the street.

Fuzzily, Pete notes that the car he had been in is empty now, the other Dandies lounging across the hood or leaning lazily on canes. They look a bit cross, like their prey has gotten away, and Pete desperately hopes that it has, because if they're hurt--fuck if they're dead because of him, oh god...

Pete's Dandy, who is wearing a bright red bow tie, slows and growls at the other vampires. "Did you let them get away?"

One of them shrugs lazily, twirling his bowler hat. "Weekes and Garcia went after them. It's fine." _They got away_ , Pete thinks jubilantly, hoping they can remain that way.

"It is not _fine_ ," Bow Tie snaps. "They'll cause even more trouble, now that we've outright attacked them. You know what Beckett said: kill them all."

"'Cept that one," another Dandy points out. He looks even younger than Brendon. Pete wonders if there's any age where they draw the line and won't corrupt someone.

" _Ex_ cept this one, yes," Bow Tie replies stiffly. If Pete didn't feel like a noodle at the moment, he would have laughed. Were they really so uptight that they corrected each other's speech? First the crazy, old-fashioned suits, now this.

A third one stares hungrily at Pete. "I can take him from you if you want, Smith." Where the other vampires look ethereal in their paleness, this one just looks sickly; his skin is tinged blue and his eyes are deeply sunken.

The Dandy holding Pete--Smith--pulls him closer against his chest protectively. "Don't even fucking think about it, Carden."

Carden grins devilishly, a manic look in his eyes. "Aw, come on. It's been weeks since I've eaten anything, and Beckett didn't say what state the human had be in when we handed him ov--"

Smith's voice drops dangerously low. "I said forget it."

Carden grumbles something under his breath, and before Pete has time to blink they've moved five yards and he's being shoved into the arms of the Dandy whose speech had been corrected. Smith has Carden pinned to the car, eyes black and fangs bared. "What did you fucking say?" he spits. "You want to say that to my fucking face?"

Carden tries to shove Smith away, fails. "Not really," he sneers.

It's the wrong answer. Smith roars and shoves the other vampire to the ground, his hat coming askew. Carden attempts to fight back, but he must be extremely weak because Smith doesn't so much as flinch at Carden's blows. Smith presses him further to the ground, ignoring the dirty asphalt surely marking at the knees of his pants, and swings his leg over him so that he straddled Carden's torso. He pulls up a leg to pin Carden's arm down, then uses his free hand to tangle his fingers in Carden's long hair, yanking his head to the side.

"Smith, hold on--" the Dandy now holding Pete says, shifting uneasily.

"Shut the fuck up," Smith hisses, "I know what the fuck I'm doing so just fucking fuck off."

"Smith!" the other vampire shouts. "What the hell, man?"

Smith doesn't deign to reply to the question, bringing his face close to Carden's neck. Pete wonders what happens when a vampire gets bitten. He has firsthand knowledge of its unpleasantness as a human, but the way that the other Dandies are reacting it must be a bigger deal than if they bit a human.

"Fucking hell," the hat-twirling vampire swears, rushing forward to intervene. He pulls at Smith's jacket, but Smith bats his hand away violently. The vampire persists, however, and manages to shift Smith's position on Carden until he can get his arm free. It shoots up to grip Smith's neck, and now they're really fighting. Carden must be running on pure desperation, Pete thinks, because he looks like he could keel over at any second.

The third vampire struggles to keep the two apart; curses fly as fast as the superhuman punches.

Pete feels the Dandy holding him start forward as if to intervene, then swear as he remembers who he has in his arms. He grunts, then pulls Pete's hand up to his face. If he were able to move, Pete would have tried to move away, but as it stands he can't feel anything, only a faint tingling sensation where the sensation in his limbs should be.

The Dandy sniffs at his wrist, mutters "fuck it" under his breath, and bites him there again. Pain blossoms under Pete's skin, slowly making its way up to his chest, where it sits and wraps around his heart and smolders there. His vision goes dark on the edges, and he barely notices when he's unceremoniously dumped to the ground, limbs tangled, and his neck twisted uncomfortably so that his bite screams at him again. At least he can see what's happening at this angle. Small consolation.

"Would you fucking quit it?!" one of the vampires yells, Pete can't tell who. "If we don't get back to Beckett soon he'll send Urie after all our asses."

It doesn't seem to make much of an impact on the fight; Smith and Carden still attempt to tear at each other's throats, and the other two try their hardest to keep them apart.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" comes a voice from somewhere behind Pete. Blurring in next to the fight to fling the fighting vampires apart is a new Dandy, and he turns a betrayed look on Smith, walking close. "Spencer..." Oh, a first name, how scandalous. They must be closer than the others. Another vampire, a female, appears at his side; these two must be Weekes and Garcia.

Spencer Smith doesn't meet the newcomer's eyes, but his lips turn up in a snarl. "Fucking Carden--"

"I don't care about Carden," the new vampire interrupts. "You're supposed to leave whatever shit there is between you back at base, not drag it out here in the open to compromise our objective. We should have been back ages ago. Beckett will have our hides." His gaze snags on Pete, and his expression darkens. "Why did you leave the human unattended?" he demands, striding towards Pete, threading his fingers through his hair and jerking him into a semi-upright position.

Pete could cry, he really could. These fucking vampires won't leave him the hell alone and he just wants to go home. What the hell did he do to deserve this? His life has been put in danger more times tonight than the rest of his twenty one years put together. In a way that has nothing to do with drugged state he's in, Pete feels tired. Too much has happened on too little sleep, and his head pounds like his own heartbeat it trying to beat its way out of his skull. Everything aches, in the way that trying to describe the pain doesn't work and you have to fall back from fancy phrases and expressions to just say _it hurts_.

"He was fine," Spencer says. "It's not like he can exactly go anywhere like that." A sadistic smile pulls his lips back from the four points of his fangs. "I mean, look at him, Dallon. Pathetic."

Dallon scoffs and reaches down to fold Pete into his arms. At least like this, with his head tucked against Dallon's chest, he's in a position that doesn't cause him immeasurable pain. Still hurts like a bitch. He's being held the opposite way from how Spencer had him, with his ear pressed up against the right side of Dallon's chest. Dread and repulsion fill Pete's gut as he waits and waits to hear a heartbeat that never comes.

Without a word, Dallon turns away from the car again, muscles tensing like he's about to take off running, but he doesn't move. "Shit." The word is a bare hiss of air past his teeth. Pete tries to move his head and only succeeds in doing is hurting himself more.

"Put him down," comes a steely voice from up ahead. _Vienna!_

"Why don't you make me," Dallon taunts. When there isn't a reply from Vienna, Dallon gives out a sharp laugh. "That's what I thought." He takes off down the street, and despair rises in Pete's chest. He was so close--so close to being rescued. But of course Vienna is hopelessly outnumbered.

Then Dallon stumbles, nearly dropping Pete. He tries to take another step, but he jerks again and this time he does drop Pete, who tumbles to the ground painfully. Dallon falls beside him, cursing, struggling to right himself. Spencer is suddenly at his side, pulling him to his feet, and then Pete sees the blood flowing freely from the wound in his back, spreading quickly through his nice clothing. The two Dandies seem to forget about Pete, Spencer dragging Dallon out of the middle of the street and holding him close. For a second Pete thinks they're--no no, Dallon is just reaching for Spencer's neck. Spencer pushes him back down, shaking his head. He murmurs something, glancing back in Vienna's direction, and brushes Dallon's hair out of his face. Spencer stands, makes sure that his friend is well-hidden in the shadows, then races back into the fray with nothing more than a blur.

"Yeah, sure just leave me here. That's cool. I'm fine. You go do your thing, it's not like I can't move or something," Pete says, although in his drugged state it comes out more like, "Ynnlmmmffnn. Nnnggnnnmmhhhnng."

Pete watches helplessly as the Dandies minus Dallon, who is choking on his breaths in an alcove between two nearby buildings, advance on Vienna. She faces them bravely, a wooden stake in one hand and a handgun in the other. "Don't come any closer," she threatens unwaveringly.

The hat-twirling vampire laughs and lunges forward. Without batting an eye, Vienna manages to bring up her pistol in time to shoot him in the chest. It's quite the feat, as vampires can move nearly too fast to see. He skips a step, but keeps moving towards her. Using the falter in his advance to her advantage, Vienna has time to ready the stake in her hand; using all the momentum her frame can provide for her she swings it towards him, sinking it deep into his chest. Without even time to cry out, he dissolves into a pile of dust and ash. Pete expects it to be a disgusting looking pile of gray stuff, but really it's quite pretty. It sparkles and flashes on the way down to the ground, sending up little puffs of smoke when it ignites upon contact with the asphalt.

The rest of the vampires approach warily now, seeing the apparent ease with which Vienna is able to dispatch them. The hunter takes a step back; no matter her prowess when it comes to killing monsters, she's still outnumbered four to one. Pete doesn't see how she can take them all on. Maybe if he was able to distract them for her she would have more of a chance, but all he can do is watch helplessly, sure he's about to see her get killed.

Suddenly there are arms around him, pulling him to his feet much more roughly than the vampires had done earlier. A slight coughing noise comes from Pete's throat as he tries to say something, but the person shushes him.

"Be quiet, we're here to rescue you," he whispers. Pete doesn't recognize the voice. Without saying anything else he starts pulling Pete out of the middle of the street. Towards Dallon. Pete tries to say something, but all that makes it out of his mouth are incoherent grumblings. The man carrying him tells him to be quiet again, pulling Pete into the alley. He slides Pete to the ground, crouching next to him. Pete can't see his face in the dim lighting. Sounds of fighting sound from down the street, and Pete hopes that more hunters have shown up to help Vienna.

The man starts to say something, but before he can get a whole word past his lips he has a vampire latched onto his neck. Dallon doesn't take the time for pleasantries like Brendon had when he fed from Pete; he digs his teeth right in to the man's carotid artery and doesn't let go, even when he flails wildly. He seems unable to make a sound, mouth opening and closing in silent horror. Dallon seems to regain some strength, replenishing the blood he lost in his gunshot wound, and wraps his arms tighter around the man. He doesn't lift his head; the man's struggles grow weak and then still.

Pete doesn't know when the man dies, exactly, but at some point Dallon pushes the body off of him, licking his lips. He slides back down against the wall, sighing contentedly. Pete feels his gaze on him, and he shifts minutely. Vampires are a mystery to him; for all he knows Dallon is still in danger and needs to finish him off too in order to survive.

Seeming to know what Pete's thinking, the thin-faced Dandy chuckles lightly. "Don't worry," he gurgles around the blood still oozing past his lips, "You're safe from me. You're supposed to be returned nice and neat. With a bow, if we can manage." He gives a choking laugh again, then shoves himself to his feet. Swaying, he reaches out a gloved hand to steady himself against the wall and then reaches for Pete.

 _God fucking damn it am I going to be carried_ everywhere _tonight?_

Dallon heads back towards the fight, where humans and vampires fight for their lives and undeaths, respectively. Vienna has been joined by Grayson and Joe, and another girl that Pete thinks he might recognize from school.

Dallon shifts Pete's weight in his arms. "Hey!" he shouts. "Fucking drop your weapons or this one's dead!"

Pete sees Vienna's head twist violently around, searching for him. Distracted, a Dandy takes the opportunity to grab her arms and pin them to her sides. She gives a frustrated scream, kicking her legs when she's lifted off the ground in an attempt to get her to stop struggling.

The fighting doesn't stop though, maybe because the hunters know that the vampires won't kill Pete for whatever reason, more likely because they don't want to be instantly killed when they disarm themselves. Either way, Dallon gives out a frustrated sound, unsure what to do.

"Now, now, Weekes, you weren't actually going to kill my prize were you?" a voice oozes from beside them.

Dallon's muscles contract so harshly it must be painful. "Beckett," he manages to squeeze out past his tension.

A Dandy, even more posh looking than the others and with long wavy hair that gleams with good grooming, flicks a bored wrist to his right. "Get them to shut up, would you? They're annoying me."

Pete is startled to see Brendon step forward. "Stop fighting," his friend says softly. Instantly everyone freezes, some mid swing. They hardly even breathe. Is this what compelling is? Even Dallon seems impressed by the display of power, as he gives out a short huff of air at Brendon's actions.

Beckett sighs in approval of the sudden silence that has smothered the street. Hands clasped behind his back, he sweeps his gaze across the people in front of him until it stops on Pete. He lifts an eyebrow delicately, looking serene, but his voice his edged with steel when he speaks. "What did you do to him?"

"Sir? I didn't--he was already like this when--"

"You could have killed him," he interrupts Dallon. He looks almost pleasant. Mimicking the same motions Brendon had used earlier that night, Beckett removes his gloves, wandering over to Pete. He lifts Pete's bloodied wrist between his thumb and forefinger to his nose, inhaling deeply. Tutting, he shakes his head. "Lewis, he'd already been incapacitated when you bit him; you nearly overdosed him. Come here."

The vampire Pete had been handed over to before Smith and Carden had started their fight stumbles as his limbs unlock. Warily he approaches. "Yes, sir?"

Beckett sighs. "I really don't enjoy having to do this. This will mean we'll have lost two members in one night."

Lewis pales, skin bleaching of what little color it had. It takes Pete a stupidly long time to realize what Beckett means, and by then he's already got his teeth in Lewis' neck. It doesn't take long for the Dandy to be drained of blood, and then he crumbles to the ground in a burst of glitter and flame. Pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the corner of his mouth--he's a surprisingly neat eater--Beckett hums thoughtfully and turns back to Pete. No one has moved during this whole exchange, mostly because they're being held still by the power of Brendon's compel, but Dallon hasn't so much as breathed--which he probably doesn't have to do--and Brendon himself has stayed stock-still, only his eyes moving to make sure that his power stays strongly connected to each individual.

As Beckett nears him again, however, Pete feels something wash over him that makes his sight go spotty on the edges; his stomach convulses and a thin line of vomit dribbles down his chin. His lungs feel like they've shrunk, and he can't force his chest to move any more than it already is to suck in more air. It feels like he's been fucking poisoned.

Beckett hisses distastefully, but raises Pete's wrist to his face again, this time gingerly pressing his teeth into his skin.

Pete knows what it feels like to be bitten by a vampire. It's happened more times in the past few hours than he's ever wanted it to happen in his life, but this is different. He expects another wave of pain, of dread at the feel of his blood being drawn from his body. What he doesn't expect is to feel instantly better at the feel of Beckett's four fangs in his wrist. Beckett pulls his head away, face twisted in disgust, and turns to spit a mostly clear liquid tinged gold on the ground.

"You can put him down now, Weekes," Beckett drawls, bored expression back in place.

Dallon slides Pete from his arms, and he's able to shakily stand. Everything still hurts, but at least now he can move on his own. Until Beckett gives Brendon a meaningful look and he feels his limbs stiffen. So close yet so fucking far. Pete could scream in frustration. Brendon has them all under his thumb, and the vampire doesn't even look like he's trying.

Beckett starts pacing in front of his audience. "You know, I don't really appreciate having my things taken from me. We were going to turn this human, and then you hunters came and ruined all of our plans."

"We agreed he was going to be mine, William." Brendon's voice is colder than Pete's ever heard it. He sees Dallon shift uneasily out of the corner of his eye when he hears Brendon refer to the Dandy leader by his first name.

"Yes, well, sometimes plans change. And now that everyone seems to have taken such an interest in this one," he takes Pete's chin in his hand, staring intently into his eyes, "I'm curious as to why he's so special. And now _I'm_ interested in his...future."

"He's mine," repeats Brendon, adamant.

Beckett's lip turns up, and he turns to face his inferior. "You forget, I think, who is in charge here. Do not forget your place."

"I've already claimed him," Brendon argues. "If you want one of your own so badly, why don't you have that one?" He jerks his head in the direction of a building. Pete's confused. All the other people that the vampire could feed from are in front of Brendon, not behind him.

His confusion must be mirrored on Beckett's face, because Brendon gives an impatient snort. "Come out where we can all see you."

Stumbling into the middle of the street, like he's trying his hardest not to come but can't help but do so anyway, comes Patrick.

_Oh my fucking god damn shit, no._

One of the hunters, Pete thinks it might be Joe, manages to grunt in alarm, but then they're still again when Brendon casts a lazy eye back their way.

When Patrick pulls up to a stop in front of Beckett, the Dandy leader just shrugs noncommittally. But then he smiles, all teeth, and Pete feels his blood drain to his toes.

Brendon casts an eye to the sky, and now Pete notices the slightly grayness that tinges the air. It will be morning soon. "Whatever we do," Brendon murmurs, "we need to do it soon. It's almost day. We should leave the other alive; if we take too many the police might actually be motivated to get off their asses and come after us."

Beckett hums, tapping a slender finger against his lips. He doesn't reply, but Brendon must read something in his expression that Pete can't see, because he closes his eyes in--is that relief? Facing the other people, he calls out to them. "Humans: over on the other side of the car. Dandies: come back this way." The vampires look positively livid at still being forced to move, but everyone starts heading to where Brendon has directed them.

Throughout this time, Beckett has been staring hungrily at Patrick, even though he just drained a vampire of all his blood. A glimmer of recognition sparks in his eyes, and the absolute hate Patrick’s projecting is tinged with terror. Did--is this what Patrick meant? When he’d said that Brendon was stro--Pete feels sick to his stomach. Beckett, that bastard, is still within arm’s reach; if Pete could move he wouldn’t hesitate to sock him in the face.

And then Beckett beckons Patrick forward, and Pete does. He feels his limbs unlock--Brendon must be too focused on moving everyone else around--and he swings with all the strength he can muster in his five foot six frame. Beckett never even sees him coming. Knuckles connect with refined cheekbones in a blow so powerful Pete's pretty sure he's broken a few bones. Both of them yelp and stumble away from each other, and Beckett crashes into the car, a hand to his face. Immense relief fills Pete when he sees Patrick break away, running off as fast as he can.

Brendon whirls around to face Pete again. "Stop," he commands, and Pete can't move again. But his concentration must really be broken, because everyone else is moving now, too. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses when the hunters bring out their weapons again. The vampires snarl at them, about to jump forward into another fight.

Brendon steps forward. " _Fucking quit it_." His voice carries more power than it did before. " _Humans, you need to leave as quickly as you can. And the rest of you_ ," he turns his attention back to his men, " _Get back to base before the sun fucking roasts your asses_." They take off so quickly Pete doesn't even see them go. Only Brendon, Beckett, and Pete remain.

Beckett finally straightens, and Pete feels a burst of pride to see the damage done to his face. There's a gash along his cheek that seeps blood, and his jaw looks funky. The vampire looks like he'd like to say something but can't through his screwed up jaw. Even with his mouth out of commission Pete's pretty sure that Beckett can fulfill the murderous look in his eyes just as well with his hands, but Brendon lays a hand on his shoulder. Beckett shakes him roughly off, and then he too disappears down the street.

Brendon stares at Pete for a moment, and Pete thinks he sees a flash of something unbearably sad in his eyes before they harden and Brendon says "Sleep" and Pete does.

* * *

" _Wake up_ ," a voice whispers, deep within Pete's mind.

He struggles back into wakefulness, and the first thing he notices is that the torment in his hand is ten times worse than anything else he's endured so far. It's probably because, he thinks as he wrenches his eyes open, because there is a vintage-looking wingtip Oxford shoe stepping firmly on it.

Something not quite awake enough to be a scream gurgles it's way out of Pete's mouth, and he tries to wrench his hand away. The vampire who is stepping on him--Pete now sees that it's Beckett, the bastard--only presses more firmly to the broken bones in his hand. It's too much. Pete has endured too much shit tonight, and it all breaks inside of him. He hates himself for it, but he finds himself blubbering, begging for Beckett to get off of him. "Please..." he whimpers. "Please, leave me alone. It...it hurts."

Malice floods Beckett's face, which seems to have already healed nicely except for a large purple bruise blooming on his left cheek, and he leans forward, putting more weight on Pete's hand. The bones shift awkwardly against each other.

Pete's awake enough to scream now.

"Beckett, come on." Pete thinks it might be Brendon. The pressure on Pete's hand decreases almost imperceptibly.

"It won't kill him," Beckett murmurs, the gentle cast of his words a sick paradox to the twist of his face. "He'll heal soon enough." He grinds the toe of his shoe further into the broken bones and for a second all of Pete's senses fade behind a hazy curtain of red and pure agony. He's not sure if he cries out or not, but his throat is raw like he does.

"That's not the point." Brendon sounds annoyed now, and Pete, breathing heavily-- _can't get enough fucking air oh my god_ \--turns his head so that he's in his line of sight. His bowler hat is back atop his head, and his arms are crossed. His posture is stiff, tense, like he's walking on thin ice. It's then he notices the other vampires, dozens of them, hungrily watching the whole exchange. "How do you expect to keep the loyalty of your men if you fucking torture them before they're turned."

"Sons owe a great deal to their fathers," the Dandy leader replies cryptically.

"We agreed that I turn him," Brendon spits. Beckett turns on him, thankfully taking his foot from Pete's hand.

"That was before he--" Beckett stops, working his jaw. He winces when it pops.

"Oh come on, don't let your petty anger get in the way of this. He's. _Mine_."

Beckett growls, a low rumble in the back of his throat. "I've had about enough of your insolence, pup," he warns.

"Oh please," Brendon scoffs, "I'm not afraid of you. You _need_ me, more than you'd like to admit. And if you want to keep me, you'll let me have my way. Let me have my prey." He flicks his eyes towards Pete, and Pete almost thinks he sees concern in his gaze before it's directed back towards Beckett.

The other vampires shift uneasily, murmuring among themselves. Pete wonders if anyone's ever stood up to Beckett before.

"You overestimate your value."

"You underestimate me."

Beckett bristles, but he stands aside and allows Brendon to kneel down next to Pete.

Wrenching him up by his hood, and choking him in the process, Brendon runs his cold fingers over Pete's neck. Suddenly the weight of what is about to happen crashes over him. He kicks out, trying to get away, because he can deal with getting captured and drugged and bitten and fed from and having his fucking _hand_ broken for god's sake, but he cannot fucking deal with fucking being turned into a fucking vampire.

Brendon pulls Pete close, murmuring softly. He hooks his chin over his should, bringing his lips to Pete's ear. "Please," Brendon whispers, "don't fight this. It's better this way."

"Better what way?!" Pete chokes. "Better to be a monster? Bren--let me--let me go. Please. Oh god, oh god, ohgodohgodohgod."

Brendon tightens his grip on Pete as his struggles grow more frantic. "Pete," he soothes, "trust me." Pete notices he's not compelling him, but he doesn't care. Maybe this way he can--somehow--escape Brendon's grip and---impossibly--make it past the surrounding vampires without--unlikely--getting eaten or worse, turned.

"Pete," Brendon pleads. And he probably wants to turn Pete around to face him, but the slackening of his grip is enough for Pete to stumble out of his arms and start running. "No--Pete!"

He doesn't know why he does it. Desperation and instinct override his sense of reasoning, which tells him to stay the _fuck_ next to Brendon because he's the only on in there that Pete even knows. An irrational smile creeps onto his face, but he doesn't make it two yards before someone tackles him from behind, wrapping him in an iron embrace.

And then there are teeth in his neck and he's crashing to the floor and he can't fucking move and holy shit this is it he's going to die. Beckett snarls into Pete's skin and tears his mouth away. He bites into his own wrist, and blood spurts out of his veins. Dribbles splash onto Pete's cheek, and Brendon might be shouting and he might be fighting other Dandies trying to get to Pete but he's not sure because Beckett has his arm pressed to Pete's mouth and the tang of his blood is more pungent than the quaint description of copper and old pennies, it's thick and cold and choking him and Pete can't fucking breathe and--and--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwah ha ha I love cliff hangers. Leave comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so awkward please excuse my awkwardness. This seemed better when I wrote it agh.

It's dark, and quiet. The kind of dark that strains your eyes, and the kind of quiet that presses in on the sides of your head and makes your ears ring. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it's a definite improvement from Pete's agony earlier.

He feels rather than hears the popping in his right hand as the bones right themselves, stitch back together along the breaks. His neck itches for a moment, then the feeling fades. There's a slight pain in his jaw that leaves him feeling cotton-mouthed and thirsty. The ache that had spread throughout his whole body over the course of the night lifts, peeling back from his muscles. Strength floods his limbs, and he feels better than he's felt all night. In a long time, actually. Maybe ever.

A fuzzy feeling--there's no other way to describe it--digs it's way under Pete's skin, wraps around his muscles. It's like his insides are being covered in a blanket, soft and comforting. He stays that way for a long time, cozy and enveloped in his own skin. It feels likes he's floating.

But now something is wrong. Something churns dark and deep and heavy in Pete's stomach, and this unpleasantness replaces whatever nice things he had been feeling before. A chill settles in his bones. His guts twist in pain, and Pete gasps, crunching in on himself, limbs wrapped tight around his middle. Sound comes back to him; he hears the slide of his clothes against a tile floor. His stomach rolls over, and his eyes fly open.

The light is dim in the room. Pete's eyes adjust quickly, and now he sees the drab bedroom furniture: a bed missing a two legs and canted drastically to the side, a desk with deep gouges in the wood and all the lacquer worn away, a lamp with no lampshade and no light bulb. A dapper suit coat hangs over the back of the chair. Peeling wallpaper sags with water damage. A window hides behind blackout curtains, half drawn, and out it he can see the night sky. It had been nearly morning when he lost consciousness. Has he been out the whole day?

It doesn't matter because now Pete convulses on the floor, not able to quite get his limbs working in the right way to right himself. His stomach ties itself into a knot trying to wring out the overfull feeling he has. He gags, spits out a wad of saliva. There's a sour taste in his mouth, working it's way up from his intestines. He scrapes the toes of his shoes on the floor, tries to get his arms under him, tries to stand, to sit up. His stomach gives a final heave, and all the food he's eaten recently comes spilling out of his mouth.

The roiling in his stomach has hardly abated before it starts up again. Pete vomits everything out of his stomach, until not even bile is left and his spit is pink with blood. Pressure builds behind his eyes, in his nose. Pete moans, unable to form a coherent thought. He wants to go back to sleep and that nice feeling of before.

Copper--it smells overwhelmingly of copper, and it feels like the air is liquid and soft. It takes Pete a moment to realize that's because his nose is bleeding, it's pouring down his upper lip and dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Breathing becomes laborious, and for far too long his lungs stop pumping altogether, mouth gaping open and teeth clacking into each other.

He manages to make himself breathe in, but no breath should hurt that fucking much why does it hurt so much his fingernails scrabble at the tile but there's no purchase to be found there holy shit holy shit holy shit he's dying there's no other explanation that's it this is the end.  
Then it all stops.

Pete is still; his limbs have stopped flailing, his chest is still, and it's so silent that he doesn't even hear his heartbeat. If it's still beating. Maybe he's dead and his brain just hasn't caught up to the rest of his body yet.

Thoughts grow sluggish, and though Pete expects the world to grow dark and quiet, if anything everything looks sharper, sounds seem more pronounced.

And...he's hungry.

Hungrier than he's ever been in his life. This is a deep, primitive, wild need for food that overrides higher thinking and has Pete on his feet before he even knows what he's doing. Warm, something warm. He needs something warm. He's so empty--hungry. The air it smells--there. There's something in the other room. Two somethings.

Pete is out of the door within the second, so focused on the smell of warm bodies that he doesn't notice the cold one that peels away from the wall where it had been watching the whole time and trail after him, ignoring for now the mess Pete's made of the floor. Brendon's footsteps falter as he goes after Pete, favoring his right leg. More than that though, there's something heavy in his gait, something sad.

Crashing into the walls on his way down the hallway, Pete skids to a stop in front of a door to another room. Forgetting the doorknob entirely he just pushes into the room, wood splintering as he tears the door from its hinges.

Inside, two people, a man and a woman, sit drowsily on the floor. They're unbound, but four neat puncture wounds show on the insides of their wrists. Pete draws in a deep breath, sucking in their scent. So warm. Suddenly Pete feels unbearably cold, as if being the presence of such warmth has made him realize how frigid his own skin is; he starts shaking and has to grab the door frame for support. His stomach shouts for him to get on with it, and Pete stumbles forward, towards the people. The woman blinks blankly up at him, not moving; the man cries out and moves away, flinging out an arm to try to keep Pete at bay. Even though the woman is much easier prey Pete heads for the man. His vision goes funny, and it's as though he can see all the veins beneath his dark skin, glowing faint pink and pulsing with light.

Pete falls into him, instinct completely taking over, and he brings his mouth hungrily down on the man's neck. Feeble struggles do nothing to stop him from sliding his lips over his--warm--skin. He's not too sure what to do next, but god damn he so hungry--and then his teeth find their mark and he bites down hard, harder than he probably needs to. Blood gushes into his mouth, and he chokes on it for a moment, trying to figure out how to swallow it, but that's not working and--ah. There. Pete finally figures out how to suck at the blood through his fangs, and he drinks hungrily.

The blood still flows freely when someone pulls gently at Pete's hoodie, trying to draw him away from the man. Pete growls into the man's neck, blood seeping past his lips.

"Pete, that's enough. You've had your fill, let him go."

Pete shakes his head, teeth still embedded in the man's neck; they tear the skin when he does, long gashes that spill more blood. He might be full, but it tastes so good, salty and thick, and he feels so much warmer with it sliding into his stomach than he did before. He doesn't want to stop that feeling.

"Pete." Brendon's voice grows more insistent. "Stop. You'll kill him."

Pete finally lifts his head, but it's only to snarl at Brendon. "Fuck off," he growls. "He's mine." Blood runs down his chin, a dark stream that drips and disappears into the matching red fabric of his sweatshirt.

"I don't want your prey," Brendon replies crossly, yanking Pete up. Pete keeps a hold of the man, bringing him with him, and he surprised at how light he feels. "And he's technically mine; I caught him for you, so I should get a say in what happens to him."

Pete hugs his meal close. Fullness spreads warmly in his belly, and he burps, spraying a bit of blood on the white dress shirt Brendon wears. The other vampire flinches, but he gingerly starts to extract the man from Pete's grip.

When Pete realizes what he's doing, he jerks the man back away from Brendon, growling. Brendon's expression darkens. "Trust me Pete, you don't want to drain him. Hand him over." He reaches out a hand again, and Pete pushes his friend away. Brendon stumbles back a few steps, then straightens slowly, pulling out the wrinkles in his vest. Pete growls at him. The fucker wants to take what's his, and he'll be damned if he's going to let him.

He lets the man slump to the floor and leaps at Brendon. The man. Is. _His!_ Pete doesn't land more than a single blow to the side of Brendon's face before he subdues Pete, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him from the ground. Pete kicks his legs, frustrated that Brendon is so much taller than him, and he howls as he tries to escape his grasp. He manages to writhe enough that Brendon can't keep a hold of him, and Pete slithers out of his grasp. Immediately he springs up to tackle Brendon, and they tumble to the floor together, limbs tangled and curses flying.

"Pete, stop, you can do this on your own, please." Brendon's words are laced with the barest hint of desperation. "Be strong--Pete!" They struggle together, Brendon trying desperately to gain the upper hand, but even if he is more powerful, it seems like he's favoring his right leg and Pete is new and fully fed and Brendon doesn't want to hurt him.

"Leave me alone!" Pete snarls, scratching at the younger man's face. His nails leave deep welts that seep blood, and Brendon hisses, jerking his head away. His eyes flicker black before he struggles to clear them, and with a move that must take all of his strength he pushes Pete up and off of him until they've changed positions. Brendon pins Pete to the floor, knees tucked tight against his ribs, hands firm on his wrists. He dips his head lower, forcing Pete to look him in the eyes.

"Pete, god damn it I didn't want to do this--you were supposed to be strong--stronger than this." Brendon's voice hitches and cracks. "If I had just fucking turned you--damn it. Pete. Stop struggling. Come out of the vespertilio state. Calm down."

 _He's fucking compelling me,_ Pete thinks indignantly, but he can't help but agree with him. Why should he be worked up about this? Brendon's so friendly and sensible, and it doesn't hurt that he's hot. It's just food; he can share. He's full anyw--

"Holy fucking shit," Pete gasps, going completely limp. "Holy shit. Fuck. _Fuck._ Brendon what did you fuckin--I nearly killed someo--Bren--oh my god. Oh my god."

"Pete," Brendon soothes. "It's okay. He's still alive, he'll been fine, it's okay."

Blood roars in Pete's ears--shit is it even his?--and he shudders in Brendon's grip. All he can think is no it is not fucking okay. Brendon pulls Pete up into his lap, and now Brendon has his arms wrapped around Pete not to contain him but for comfort. The smear of crimson on the floor is too much to bear, so Pete closes his eyes; the air is too thick with the heavy scent of blood, so Pete stops breathing. He doesn't fucking need this right now.

He ran down a hallway faster than he could process it. He tore a door off its hinges. He almost killed someone. He could see their veins underneath their skin. He fucking drank their blood.

He's a vampire.

That thought, more than anything else, is what pulls down at Pete like an over-heavy anchor, dragging him deep into a sea of self-loathing. He's become one of the things he hates most in the world: a monster, a killer, something awful from nightmares made terrifyingly real.

Pete shakily wipes at the blood coating his chin; he despises the content fullness of his stomach, the way he actually kind of loves the salty taste coating his tongue, and--himself. He hates himself now, fully, with no part of his brain to come up with a viable excuse not to.

Without thinking he brings his fingers up to the tip of his ear; he snatches them away when he feels the point there. His eyes catch the sight of Brendon's ears, which already look longer and more pointed. Something dark coils in his chest and whispers damning thoughts to him.

"I'm so sorry," Brendon breathes, and he almost sounds sincere. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"Then how was it supposed to be?" Pete asks angrily, unable to look anywhere except directly into Brendon's eyes. Anything else is--he can't--he doesn't want to look anywhere else. See anything else, because he's afraid of what his hazy memories are hiding from his that he'll remember upon seeing.

The other vampire holds his gaze admirably. "Your father wasn't supposed to be Beckett. I was going to turn you."

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Pete gingerly extracts himself from Brendon's arms, still unwilling to look behind him.

Brendon sighs, but the sound is more despondent than condescending. "There's so much you don't know," he says at last, not really an answer. "And there's no way that you could ever go back to the Dandies; Beckett would make your life hell." Brendon stands, glides over to where Pete knows the man lies--he can smell the blood. The joints in Brendon's right leg pop as he kneels down, and he hisses when it gives out and he topples unceremoniously the rest of the way to the ground.

Finally looking over, Pete sees that Brendon has the man pulled into his lap, one leg stuck out an awkward angle, and he's...licking his neck? It's cat-like, the motion, and Pete watches as the wound on the man's neck stops bleeding and seals over with a thin film. He struggles weakly, so Brendon brings his wrist up and gives it a gentle bite, and his eyes fall closed, chest rising and falling with sleeping breaths.

Relieved that the man seems fine, Pete scoots over next to Brendon, laying a tentative hand on his hip. Brendon flinches but doesn't move away, moving his gaze to fix it on Pete's face. "Are...you hurt?"

"It's fine," Brendon shrugs. "It'll heal soon enough." He frowns down at his limb. "Actually, I had expected it to heal already; it's been five days."

Pete's head swims, momentarily forgetting his friend's pain. "Wait...do you mean...? How long has it been since--since I was--"

"Turned?" Brendon supplies. "It was the same day my leg was...um, broken, so five days."

"And I was...asleep? The whole time?"

"Well," Brendon explains, scrunching up his face as he adjusts his leg, "technically it was more of a coma, but yes. You were unconscious the whole time. I was only out for two days when I was turned, but I've been told it varies from person to person."

"Oh..." Pete falls silent, not sure what else to say.

"Don't worry about it," Brendon assures him. "I'll explain everything to-- _shit!_ " His hip pops again, shifting in the socket, and something crackles in his knee.

Pete shudders at the sound, pulling his hand away abruptly when he feels it jerk under his fingers. "That doesn't sound very good."

"It shouldn't be doing this," Brendon gasps. "It should have healed by now."

"What happened?" Pete asks, and hesitantly puts his hand back on the other vampire's hip.

"It was just--don't worry about me. I need to make sure you can adjust to your new life."

"What happened?" Pete repeats firmly. Brendon turns his face away and doesn't reply. "Brendon?"

"Okay look, I don't want you fucking worrying about this, okay? I'm just trying to keep you from getting killed, I don't need you getting any dumb ass ideas and--"

"Brendon."

He swallows, the swell of his Adam's apple bobbing uncertainly along the pale line of his neck. "After you tried to escape--you have to understand that William Beckett has a very short temper, and you'd already pissed him off when you broke his jaw. He blamed you for the death of those two Dandies, and for having to get mixed up in a fight with hunters. And then you tried to escape, and you made a fool of me and--" he closes his eyes "--Beckett wasn't exactly--happy--about it," he finishes haltingly.

Something furious simmers in the pit of Pete's stomach. "So he fucked up your leg?" he exclaims.

"Well, yes. And--other things." Brendon winces at the memory.

"What the fuck. What happened? Fucking-- _fuck._ Are you okay?" A thought crosses Pete's mind. "How did we even get here?"

"I'm fine," Brendon mumbles. "Or--I will be. And don't worry about it. I brought you here, made sure no one knows where we are." The bones in his leg grind against each other again, attempting to right themselves, and Brendon swears.

"Fuck," Pete whispers. All thoughts of him being a vampire have completely left his mind. As much as he was angry that Brendon had betrayed him and tried to turn him into a monster, he actually had liked the kid, back when they were both human. There weren't a lot of people Pete was friends with, and somehow a stupid high school kid had worked his way under Pete's skin and stuck there. And now he was hurting--like hell, if the expression on his face was anything to go by.

"It--" Brendon grits his teeth. "It's fine."

He struggles to his feet, putting all his weight on his left leg, brushing off Pete's concerns. "It'll heal soon. I probably just need to eat." He sends a longing glance the man's way, but focuses instead on the woman. He takes a few faltering steps towards her, then seems to grow surer of his gait, because he kneels next to her almost without a problem.

Pete's stomach churns, guiltily full with blood. "Wait," he chokes out. "Do you...have to? Right now? I mean, you seem fine you don't have to like, eat her or whatever I'm sure you'd be fine for a bit but it just like, smells really bad in here and maybe we should clean up or something first I don't know..." He forces himself to stop when he realizes that he's rambling.

Shaking his head, Brendon rises again, taking Pete by the arm and leading him from the room. He quiets his protests with quiet words of "I'll go back for them in a minute," and shows Pete down the hall. They stomp down a flight of stairs, Brendon's hand, no longer gloved, a firm presence on Pete's upper arm. Before long Pete finds himself in a dingy living room, dusty and stale. Standing in sharp contrast to the state of the floors and beat-up couch is a shiny black leather arm chair, which Brendon promptly plops himself down into. His kicks his left leg up, resting his ankle on his thigh, leans back, lays his elbow on the arm rests, and steeples his fingers. His Dandy veneer slides back into place, shiny and awfully pretentious. Waving Pete into the couch opposite, he speaks, voice soft and silky again, all traces of pain and frustration gone. "Please, sit. I'm sure you have questions. I'd like to answer them."

Pete bites back a scoff and sits. He lets out an _oof_ when he sinks about ten feet into the couch, and he struggles to pull himself up into some semblance of a dignified position. He fails. Resigning himself to having to sit with his knees at the same height as his ribs, Pete stops struggling and just stares at Brendon instead.

For a moment they both sit in silence, Brendon waiting expectantly for a question that Pete doesn't know how to ask.

Finally: "Why did you want to turn me?"

That doesn't seem to be the question Brendon wants to address, because in reply his jaw tightens, fingers sliding past each other until they're laced together and his fingernails dig into the backs of his hands. "I didn't have much of a choice," he replies stiffly.

Pete scowls. "Really? Because it seems like you could have chosen to not call me last nig--week. Last week."

"You don't understand how it works," Brendon protests. "I had to get someone to earn Beckett's trust. There are slower ways of integrating yourself as a Dandy that don't involve turning someone, but--"

"So why didn't you do it that way instead?" Pete interrupts, anger sparking in his chest.

"I needed to get on Beckett's good side quickly. I was only a vampire when for one night when I got you--"

"You haven't even been a vampire for a fucking week and yet you're fucking lecturing me on how I don't understand anything?" The anger flares into a steady flame.

"Yes. Will you stop interrupting?" Brendon snaps, eyes flashing. "I needed Beckett to realize he needed me; I had to be indispensable to him. And the only way to do that was show that I could turn someone that quickly."

This raises more questions than it answers. Questions like _why did you need Beckett to trust you,_ and _what kind of system is this that making someone a vampire gains trust,_ and _how the hell do you know so much if you're so young._ But then one he ends up asking is none of these. Just--

"Why me?" He hates how defeated his voice sounds, how small, how tired. Brendon visibly flinches, sinks back in his chair a bit.

"It's more convincing if--"

"No bullshit," Pete grits out. "Please."

There's a pregnant pause and Pete can hear Brendon's mouth working as he tries to come up with something to say. Eventually he decides to go with the truth.

"I just," he begins haltingly, "I." Another beat; the silence presses down on Pete, unbearably heavy and smothering. "I thought that, of all the people, you--you were. You were the one that wouldn't make me feel so alone."

Pete really doesn't know what to say to that. Sure, he knows that Brendon doesn't really have many other friends, but has the just over a year of knowing each other really been such an integral part of his life? Thinking back, Pete thinks that maybe it has. He remembers nights restless and wakeful wishing someone would call--and Brendon would, because he was going through shit too. He remembers, when he did finally go to sleep, wanting to not wake up and Brendon pulling him back into consciousness anyway. He remembers how broken up Brendon was after his--first--breakup with Sarah, and how, against his better judgement, he'd sneaked him into a college party, later tearing him away from some blonde douche who'd been feeling him up. Brendon hadn't been too happy at the time, probably due to the alcohol, but Pete remembers how, the next morning, Brendon had come to him all squinty-eyed and quiet, and thanked him for keeping him from doing anything too stupid. He remembers feeling too drained to even cry and Brendon sitting across from him in some shitty diner singing purposefully-bad covers when he knew damn well he has an amazing voice. He remembers a lot of the shit they went through together, and with a clench of something somewhere in his chest Pete realizes that their friendship has meant a lot to him, too.

He pushes those feelings aside however, letting his anger take over. Scowling, Pete sinks lower into the chair. "Maybe you were wrong." His words, although not very clever or particularly spiteful, are as sharp as he can make them.

Brendon levels him with a cool gaze, but Pete can see the tick in his jaw that means he's not as composed as he appears. "Maybe I was."

Pete expects him to spring up and storm away, flip him off and curse at him on his way out of the room. All he does is stand stiffly, give Pete and curt nod, and mutter something about the people upstairs. He glides across the room, stumbling when he reaches the staircase and his foot doesn't quite make it onto the first step. Soon he disappears out of view, the uneven thud of his footsteps fading as he heads down the hall.

Definitely not worried or hurt or at all regretful about anything whatsoever—no, definitely not—Pete pulls his feet up onto the couch and lies down. The sofa, not the most comfortable of furniture pieces, with numerous lumps and tears in the upholstery, is at least worn enough that he sinks almost completely into the once lush cushions. Something thumps around upstairs, but Pete definitely doesn't wonder what Brendon's doing, or if even needs help, or if he's still hurt, or if he's just fucked up one of the only friendships he's had that's lasted more than a year. The noises cease.

Pete curls up into the couch and stares at the ceiling. The room is very quiet, and he feels very, very small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys have any questions about the vampires in this 'verse, like how they work and stuff, leave comments! Brendon's going to go over that kind of stuff with Pete in a few chapters so I'll try to incorporate the answers into the narrative. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my writing probably doesn't suck as much as I think it does, but I can't help thinking that it sucks a lot. So, sorry if this makes no sense/is really awkward.

_It doesn't matter,_ Brendon thinks furiously, _it doesn't._ He should have seen this coming, anyway. Pete's hatred of all things vampire is not a secret, so of course he's going to act this way. But it's not like he can change it now. Eventually he'll cool down enough to talk to him again. Probably. Brendon doesn't think that he'll find an empty living room when he goes back downstairs, but he delays the trip anyway because he's not sure what he'll do if he does.

The two humans he had caught earlier still slouch in the corner. It's not surprising; they'd only been downstairs a few minutes and venom usually takes at least a few hours to wear off completely, depending on how much you inject into their bloodstream.

Something sharp and stabbing burns in his hip, and Brendon claps his hands to his side, colliding violently with the wall and falling rather ungracefully to one knee. "Fucking fuck shit fuck," he curses, gritting his teeth against the pain. He'd told Pete it was going to be okay, and he knew that it would be eventually, but this wound was going to take a long time to heal. Actually, considering the way he'd been hurt, his hip might never be the same again. Not if it had been so long and it still felt like this.

Struggling back to his feet, Brendon makes his way to the people in the corner. The girl he pulls to her feet, holding her limp form upright effortlessly, and bringing his mouth to her neck. The blood is fresh and young and good enough for now, but it doesn’t have quite the specific taste he wants: he’s had too many women lately, and he’d really rather drink from the man, but Pete had taken him and he doesn’t want to actually hurt them.

When he’s done, Brendon sucks on the wounds, coating them with a layer of his saliva. Vampire spit has healing properties, the better to hide themselves from detection. If done correctly, it’s easy to make the deep puncture marks look like nothing more than a hickey.

Brendon pulls the woman over to the man, dragging them both down the hall. He has to stop and adjust his grip on them more than once for fear of dropping them.

Thankfully the staircase is only just visible from the living room, so if Brendon’s quick and quiet enough he should be able to take the two humans outside without Pete seeing him. Brendon takes his time heading down the staircase, placing his feet carefully on the steps to avoid making any noise. It’s difficult, and the going is slow--he _is_ carrying two people, after all--but eventually he makes it down to the first story without any mishaps. Grunting, Brendon shits his grip on the two people until he’s got an arm around each of their middles. They’re sort of floppy, and Brendon has a hard time getting them through the house and out the front door without bumping them into anything.

They finally make it, and Brendon would take them back to a more populated area, but for the same reason that he doesn’t have the time to do that he knows they’ll be safe from any other vampires that might want to finish them off--the sun is rising.

Brendon sets them up on the porch, leaning against each other. He hesitates before heading inside, then shakes himself and disappears through the door. They’ll be fine.

Just as careful to get back to the second story as he was to leave it, Brendon manages once again to travel the whole length of the house without seeing or being seen by Pete. Grimacing as he enters the room Pete had slept in, Brendon realizes that he needs to clean up the vomit on the floor before it gets too difficult to remove. Thank god there’s no carpet, at least.

Collecting the meager cleaning supplies he has--soap and dishrags is it, he’s afraid--doesn’t take very long and before he knows it Brendon is on his knees scrubbing furiously at the floor. It’s fucking disgusting, this is, but at least this way Brendon can be irrationally angry at the crusty vomit and take it out with soap rather that at Pete and take it out with fists. He doesn’t know why he’s so furious. Actually, he does. Pete refuses to understand his situation, refuses, for even a moment, to consider things from Brendon’s point of view. He doesn’t know the shit he’s had to go through to keep the two of them safe. It’s more than he’s ever wanted to experience, but if what he knows about the Dandies is anything to go by then a fuckton more of it is headed his way.

God, the Dandies...Brendon doesn’t know why he ever got himself mixed up in that gang. Why he thought talking to vampires in the first place would be a good idea, he doesn’t know. He had known how much Pete hated the undead, and Brendon had outwardly agreed with him wholeheartedly. Inside, however...there was something about the ethereal grace of the creatures that captivated him. Sure, he knew they were dangerous and wouldn’t think twice about drinking him dry, but they were so powerful, deadly in the beautiful way that lions and sharks are.

Brendon liked to tell himself that he had sought out the company of vampires that night because he wanted to find out what they were up to, maybe report their activities to a Hunters’ agency. But he knew, really, that it was because he found them so fascinating. He’d wanted to catch a glimpse of the undead.

Brendon had snuck out of his house through his window, nearly falling off the roof and breaking his neck. He thought he’d made enough noise to wake his parents, and he stopped, fingers digging into the little purchase there was on the shingles, ears straining to hear sounds of his parents stirring. There was nothing, and he breathed easy again.

Really, it was too simple to sneak out of the house. He didn’t know how vampires hadn’t yet managed to sneak _into_ \-- Oh. Obviously. “Fucking idiot,” he breathed, skidding down a few feet until he’s peering over the edge of the roof. They can’t come in without an invitation. Duh.

Making it to the ground with little incident, Brendon started walking. He didn't have his own car, and he wasn't going to take either of his parent’s; they were in the garage and getting them out would definitely make too much noise.

The Uries lived in the inner circle of the Chicago suburbs, so it didn't take Brendon long before he was surrounded by tall, imposing buildings. During the day they were drab slabs of concrete and glass, but at night they grew sickly-looking and sinister. Brendon tried to keep his footsteps as light as possible, to look as inconspicuous as he could. There wasn't anyone else out on the street, and he began to grow uneasy. The beast of his heart, which had steadily been growing more insistent throughout the night, burst into a panicked stutter. Abruptly, Brendon turned around. He didn't need to be fuckimg eaten that night, or any night for that matter.

The way back home seemed twice as long, and Brendon stopped when he realized he'd gone the wrong way. It seemed impossible; he'd lived in this city his whole life. Darkness made the streets unfamiliar. He'd never been outside alone at night before, and he brought his hands up to rub at his arms, regretting not bringing a jacket. The dark and cold made it fucking terrifying.

And the the terror, Brendon quickly discovered, only gets worse when you realize you're being trailed by vampires.

The shapes were dark and lithe, slipping between shadows like liquid smoke. They were nearly soundless, their footsteps much quieter than Brendon’s, who was trying to be as silent as possible. Their forms almost didn’t seem corporeal, and Brendon was right. They were beautiful, in a way. A dangerous way. A way that he wanted to get away from right _now._

Almost against his will Brendon quickened his pace. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that they were going to catch up to him. Glancing around for somewhere to hide, Brendon’s dark eyes fell upon a nearby building. It was a long shot, but if the door was open…

Quickly he crossed the street, flinging open the door--thank god it was unlocked--and slipping inside. Brushing his fingers over the wood of the door, Brendon cursed when he realized that the reason the door wasn’t locked was because it didn’t _have_ one, and there would be no way to keep the vampires at bay. He glanced behind him, waiting impatiently for his eyes to adjust further to the gloom.

The lobby was full of dark shapes, maybe old furniture, maybe boxes, Brendon wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, as long as he could hide in them. He slid between two large boxes, pulled a dropsheet down from the top of one and burrowed down in it. Dust billowed into the air. He fought back the sneeze that tickled at his throat valiantly, but it was working down his nose anyway when the door creaked open. Brendon swallowed the sneeze, biting his tongue and taking shallow breaths. He could only hope that the musty scent of the abandoned building would hide his own smell.

Pressing back further into the boxes, Brendon frowned as he felt something digging into his butt from his back pocket. His fingers snagged his cellphone, and he flipped it open, wincing at the bright beam of light that stabbed out into the darkness. His thumb trembled, hovering over the keypad. If he called his parents they’d probably kill him. The other option that his adrenaline-laced brain could even manage to half-think of was Pete. He pressed the number three and the call button, sliding his cell to his ear. The soft ringing seemed too loud. _Pick up pick up pick up._ Footsteps crept close, stilled, then moved on again, but the tight knot in Brendon’s chest didn’t loosen in the slightest.

_Fucking pick up the fucking phone, Pete._

"What's up?" _Thank god._

"Um. Pete. Hey." His voice sounded embarrassingly wavery when he was trying to speak this quietly and his tongue was thick with fear, but Brendon really didn’t fucking care right then.

"Hey."

"So, um. I actually might need your help. Just a little." Brendon winced at how stilted his words sounded. He didn’t know why he was being so nonchalant. There were fucking _vampires_ stalking around, for god’s sake.

"Okay," Pete replied. The snicker that floated through the speaker put Brendon on edge.

"This isn't funny," Brendon snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. Maybe he should have called his parents after all.

"It kind of is, actually." He knew what this was about. Brendon had stressed so many times how he was so independent and didn’t need help and _fuck all of that goddam it Pete I might die tonight._

"Pete, I'm alone in the city in the middle of the fucking night could you please take this a little more seriously," he says, proud of how even his voice stays.

There’s a second of silence on the line. "What," Pete whispered, not really a question.

"You heard me," Brendon hissed, focusing on keeping his voice as soft as possible. He thought he’d heard footsteps, but the more he listened to more he was convinced it was just the nighttime creakings of an old building.

"Oh my god, Brendon. What the fuck. What the actual fuck, man. Where are you. I'll get you. What. The. _Hell._ " Brendon scowled in annoyance. He was beginning to wish he’d called his parents after all.

"Would you just calm down?" Heart sinking, Brendon realized that asking Pete to come get him wasn’t an option. If he was going to die tonight he didn’t want to drag his friend down with him. "You don't have to get me. That would be stupid. No, just. Just. I don't know. I guess I wanted to hear a familiar voice again."

"Brendon..."

Brendon didn’t reply, concentrating on keeping his breathing as quiet as possible. The faint sound of murmuring voices floated by. His eyes slid shut, he was so focused on straining for the slightest sound.

"But why," Pete started, and Brendon jumped at the unexpected voice, cursing silently when his knee knocked against a box. "Why did you say you needed my help if you're not even going to let me. Let me come get you."

Brendon was quiet for a moment, waiting for the vampires to move away again. "Look, I don't--” and then they were back, moving closer and sounding excited. “Pete _fuck_. I think they're here. Oh my god." Fear choked him, squeezed tears out of his eyes.

"Brendon," Pete cried through the phone. "Brendon."

" _Shut. The fuck. Up._ " His words could barely be classified as a whisper. But it was too late. The two vampires appeared, mere feet away, and Brendon froze, the phone in his hand forgotten.

“Hey kid,” one of them grinned. His teeth shone too-white and too-sharp in the dim lighting.

Brendon made an aborted motion away from them, and the other one spoke. “No, no, don’t do that. Don’t go anywhere. We just want to talk to you.”

Brendon’s lungs finally managed to push enough air out of them that he could speak. “Get--get away from me,” he croaked, pressing himself back and as far away as he can get.

The first one frowned and gave a half-nod, a dreamy expression on his face. “I...yeah. Yeah.”

Hope flared in Brendon’s chest, but it was squashed when the second grabbed the other vampire by his vest and tugged his head down. “The fuck you think you’re doing?” she snapped. But her eyes flickered back towards Brendon, expression wary.

“I--I don’t--what--” the first vampire stuttered.

“Kid,” she interrupted, catching Brendon’s gaze. “Don’t look so scared.” She nudged her companion. “Help me,” she hissed. She turned her attention back to Brendon, who was fighting the relaxant easing its way into his muscles. She smiled pleasantly, careful to keep her lips closed. “Don’t worry about a thing. We just want to talk to you for a bit.”

The other vampires shook himself. “Uh yeah, yeah. We just want to talk--it’s okay.” He shot a confused glance towards his companion.

“Okay,” Brendon said slowly, almost against his will.

“Do you think you can do something for me?” the female vampire asked. Her jaw clenched in concentration. Or maybe she was trying not to eat him. Whatever.

“Depends.” It seemed like one word replies are all that he’s going to be able to get out.

“I want you to come back tomorrow,” she murmured. “All by yourself, just like this. Same time and everything. You don’t have to do anything different. Just like how you did tonight. Come back tomorrow.” Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and she swallowed roughly.

Her companion nodded. “Yeah, come back tomorrow. Same time, same place. We’ll be waiting right here for you.”

She grinned, voice slipping into an even smoother pitch. “And there’s no need to tell anyone else about this. In fact, you might as well forget about us until tomorrow night. We just want to talk, kid.” She motioned to the other vampire, gave Brendon a little half-wave. “See you tomorrow.”

Brendon nodded tersely, a struggle between him to follow what they said and not to fighting viciously in his brain. After a moment, however, the feeling faded and he forgot what he was even thinking about.

Letting out all the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, remembered the phone in his hand. “I think they’re gone,” he muttered to Pete, confusion still swirling in his brain. Where had they gone, again?

“Shit.”

Panic flutters against Brendon’s ribs. “What?”

“Not you. I burned myself.”

“What?”

"On...my straightener."

Brendon huffed out a laugh. "Dumb ass." Looking around the empty room again, Brendon cautiously stood. "I um. I changed my mind. You can come get me now."

Pete’s reply was sweet relief in his ear. "I'm coming."

The ride back Brendon had been trying to remember what had happened, why he’d thought going out there was a good idea, and he still hadn’t found an answer for himself when Pete asked the same question.

Brendon shuts his eyes, pulling himself from the memory of being surrounded by vampires, of blood hot against his lips, of Beckett’s snarling face as he asked him why he could do what he could do--he hadn’t even known what he’d meant at the time. Memories of mistrust--he was too powerful, too dangerous for them--and having to prove himself by bringing in a friend, of false bravado and playing it up for the Dandies, of sinking his teeth into Pete’s neck, of failure again and again and knowing he was alive only because of what he could do.

He remembers learning that vampires can’t cry.

He bites the inside of his cheek, tossing the disgusting rags in a bucket. The floor is clean. Whatever. He doesn’t want to think of this right now. The cleaning supplies take moments to put away, and then Brendon sits on the dangerously canted bed and stares at the wall for hours and hours, waiting for the day to pass.

* * *

Fatigue pulls at Brendon’s bones; he feels it behind his eyes and in the heavy clumsiness of his fingers. He knows he should have rested, but try as he might he couldn’t force himself to close his eyes. Vampires don’t really sleep, but they still need to rest during the day, powering down into a meditative state.

Reluctantly he rises from bed, wincing at the twinge in his hip. It’s unusually stiff and achy, hard to move and harder to ignore. It really should have healed by now. The things he’d gone through had been bad, but not _that_ bad. Right?

Brendon wonders if the knife had been silver. Did silver effect vampires more than other metals? He can’t remember. Fuck, he should have paid more attention in school.  
These musings and more fill Brendon’s head as he limps his way to the closet and pulls out another set of clothes. Gingerly, he peels off his day-old suit, dumping the items on the floor. He shimmies out of his trousers, glancing reflexively at his hip. A scar, shiny and swollen and red, winds it’s way unevenly down into his boxers. Brendon grits his teeth and pulls the other pair of pants on, tucks in a new dress shirt, and slides on his suspenders. God, he hates these things, these... _uniforms_ the Dandies have to wear. Fucking Beckett and his fucking gang and-- “ _Fuck,_ ” Brendon snaps, at nothing and no one in particular, but everything and everyone at once. Fuck the vest and fuck the bow tie and fuck the gloves and fuck being a _vampire_ and fuck losing your best friend over it.

Leaning his forehead against the wall, Brendon breathes angrily out of his nose. He wants to go back a week and slap himself, lock his window and keep him from sneaking out. _I was an idiot._ And yes, it was only a week ago, but Brendon feels lifetimes older than his human self, thoughts and memories and images that he can’t quite control flashing through his brain relentlessly. Some make sense: there’s the sigh of the woman from earlier as her sister’s hands plait her hair; and the unending scream of his first blood, droning low and angry at the base of his skull; and eyes (bluegreenbrown), beautiful eyes--Brendon nearly laughs, because those eyes have really stuck in Pete’s head, and if he ever sees them again it’ll be because they’re about to stab a wooden stake into his chest--from Pete; and a faint hiss of glee at the misfortune of others from Beckett, when Brendon had first been turned. Yes, those make sense, in that Brendon can pretty much determine where they come from, even if no other vampire has said a word about experiencing the same thing.

But there are others.

Fire creeping up staircases, lightning cracking down out of the sky and lighting up a cozy Christmas livingroom, creaking wooden wheels dragging through mud, soft static from a black and white television, the cool whisper of stone walls covered in moss and long abandoned, the stifled roar of a speakeasy. He doesn’t know where they come from, and they don’t stay long enough for him to figure it out.

“Are you--okay?”

Brendon starts, spinning around. “Pete, I--uh.” He snaps his jaw shut, kicks the pile of dirty laundry into the closet and slides the door shut, as if that will make a difference.

Pete’s staring intently at him, worry still lingering in the curve of his mouth. His hoodie, which Brendon had washed for him, is back on, and he tugs at the end of one sleeve with the opposite hand. “Ah, I guess I have some--some questions for you. About being...about being a vampire.” He swallows, presses his lips tightly together. Brendon knows that look; he’s hiding his teeth.

He nods. “Right.”

Pete nods back, and there’s a terse moment of silence.

“So...do you want to go back to the living room or…?” Pete bites his lip.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Sure. Yeah.” Fuck. It’s really awkward. They were never like this when they were human. Brendon keeps expecting for Pete to make some smart-ass comment about his suit or the whole goddam situation in general, but he just waits for Brendon to move first, his dark eyes indecipherable. So Brendon moves first.

When they’re back in the living, room Brendon’s posture not nearly as haughty as before and Pete’s more assertive, Pete launches right into it.

“Okay so--so, like, we can’t go outside in the day for sure, right?”

Brendon laughs. “Right. You’ll die.”

“D’ya know why?”

“Um,” Brendon thinks back on his meeting with the Priest. “Well, kinda, but if you want it explained better you’d better ask the Priest.”

“How often--wait who?”

“The Priest. He’s like the...priest. Of vampires,” Brendon explains, rather terribly.

“Really,” Pete replies dryly.

“Yeah he’s the one--he takes care of drained humans and he’s pretty much the vampire expert around here. Doesn’t belong to a gang, but he can come and go as he pleases because no one would dare attack him.” Brendon remembers meeting him, with his smooth, clammy skin and the dangerously blank look in his eyes thinly covering literal centuries of knowledge. His greatest asset is that the humans don’t even know he’s a vampire--he leads mass and hands out portions of holy water and drinks blood at communion and no one is any the wiser. Pete will have to meet him eventually, but Brendon doesn’t want to go back there. Not yet.

“Drained...humans.”

“Erm, yes.” Brendon winces, not meeting Pete’s eyes. He’d been hoping that Pete would miss that part.

“Drained. Humans.”

“It doesn’t happen very often,” Brendon defends, “and it’s not like you or I or anyone I’ve know has ever done it--well except for Beckett but he’s a fucking asshole who can rot in hell--so really what he does it just keep all the vampire lore and genealogy up-to-date, and keep records and being really fucking creepy.”

Pete looks like he wants to press the matter but bites back the words. “Okay. Okay. So. How often will I need to...eat?”

Brendon’s eye gleams. Much as he hates being one, all of this vampire shit is actually really interesting. “It depends. The longest I’ve ever seen someone go without feeding is nearly a week, but probably every other day. If you go long enough without eating, your body uses up all of the blood inside of you and you sort of just wither away, turn to dust.”

“Yeah,” Pete nods absently, and Brendon knows he’s thinking of the two vampire deaths he’s seen already. “But what about food? Like, human food. Burgers and shit.”

“I mean, you can eat it if you want, it won’t kill you, but I wouldn’t suggest it. You’ll end up hunched over the toilet later barfing your brains out. You can’t digest it anymore. That’s why you threw up when you changed; your body was expelling all of the human food it had in it, down to the smallest half-digested piece. You’ll probably have a stomach ache until the rest that was working it’s way through your intestines is expelled,” Brendon adds, noting the way Pete presses a hand to his gut.

Pete grimaces. “Gotcha. Anything else I should know?"

“Tons of stuff, actually,” Brendon replies, and proceeds to launch into an explanation of everything he can think of that Pete might need to know. He tells him about how venom works as a tranquilizer, incapacitating humans--and other vampires, if you use enough. He tell him about his teeth, the way that his lateral incisors--the smaller ones--are for pumping venom in victims and the canines are for pumping blood in his stomach. He tells him about how his body absorbs blood, how it becomes colder the longer since he’s eaten. He tells him how his saliva acts as a healing agent, fading scars completely if he covers a wound soon enough. He tells him everything he knows about the Dandies--which is a lot, and he’s pretty sure Pete doesn’t get most of it--and the Clandestines--which is less, but Brendon knows enough to inform Pete of all the shit that goes down. He maybe does a too good of a job, since Pete looks like he doesn’t want to ever get tangled up in either gang, but he’ll have to join one eventually.

Pete nods along to Brendon’s explanation, his expression carefully blank, but Brendon knows him well enough to see the turmoil roiling beneath his skin. It’s in the way he scratches at his arm, absently and not even using his nails, just rubbing the pads of his fingers over the inside of his wrist.

Eventually Brendon runs out of things to say. The night isn’t even halfway through, though, so Brendon takes a breath. “Do you want to...go outside or something?”

“Why?” Pete doesn’t seem like he’s trying to get on Brendon’s nerves, more like he really doesn’t see the point of leaving the house.

 _So we can stop being so fucking awkward and be friends again._ “I dunno, so you can test out how strong you are and shit. It’s kinda fun to run along rooftops like a superhero.” Brendon gives a toothy grin, and Pete frowns and looks down at his lap. “Or I mean, we don’t have to. Whatever you want.” Pressing his lips together, Brendon shuts himself up. God dammit. He would have never said that to Pete a week ago. Instead he would have whined and fussed and been an annoying little shit until his older friend agreed to go do something.

“No, yeah, let’s go outside,” Pete says, giving a tiny smile. He struggles out of the lumpy couch and holds out a hand. Surprised, Brendon takes it, allowing Pete to help pull him from his armchair.

“Okay, well we can-- _fuck,_ ” Brendon gasps, snatching his hand back from Pete’s grip and pressing it to his side. Something sharp and terrible and altogether fucking _awful_ stabs into his nerve endings.

Pete eyes his friend’s hip. “Are you okay?” he asks, obviously concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Brendon grits.

“Bullshit. You don’t sound fine,” Pete scoffs.

Brendon gives a breathy laugh, easing back until he’s sitting on the arm of the chair. “Then why’d you bother asking?”

“Cause that’s what you’re supposed to do, dumbass,” Pete retorts. His lips curve into a tentative grin, but there’s still worry in the crease between his eyebrows. “So what’s wrong?”

Brendon waves him off, forcing himself to stand and ignore the pain. “Nothing. Just stiff, I guess.” At the disbelieving look on Pete’s face, he adds, “I promise.” There’s no way in hell he’ll ever tell Pete what actually happened. There’d be no stopping him from going after Beckett if he did, and that’s the surest way to get himself killed. And Brendon...Brendon can’t let that happen. All this vampire shit is his fault and Pete’s life is his responsibility--for now at least, until he has to leave him to go back to the Dandies. He can’t hide from them forever. Already he feels the tug in the base of his spine; Beckett, although he’d said he never wanted to see Brendon again, is nervous without having Brendon where he can keep an eye on him. Soon Beckett will call him back and he won’t be able to resist him.

As the two friends head outside--Brendon notes with approval that the humans from last night are gone, no sign of a struggle--Brendon takes solace in one thing: at least Beckett won’t call Pete to him, won’t bother him at all. Not when he thinks he’s dead.

They don’t actually end up racing along rooftops with superheroes, although Brendon had been serious when he’d said that. No, but Pete does try to jump up to reach a second-story fire escape--he almost gets it, too--and nearly falls flat on his face. Brendon laughs his ass off, and after a moment of scowling Pete joins in. It feels easy, comfortable, like it’s supposed to, and Brendon can nearly forget the ache in his hip and the sharp press of his teeth against his tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez I'm nervous about posting this one. Idk I just get really nervous about posting my writing cause I always feel like it sucks.
> 
> There's some descriptions of minor gore in this chapter, so if you get bothered very easily by that be careful, but it's not that bad. Anyway, enjoy! :)

It’s a shame, really, that Brendon insists they head back nearly an hour and a half before sunrise. Pete was actually enjoying himself, something he’d never thought would be possible after becoming undead. Their banter feels natural and easy, slipping past smiling lips. Brendon looks like shit, tired and more worn out than Pete’s ever felt--which is saying a lot--but he doesn’t complain and Pete’s having a good time so he isn’t going to either.

They’d even managed to sneak back onto the university grounds to get all of Pete’s things. The room had been searched; Pete could tell by how neat it was. He guesses his absence had been noted and someone had tried to find some sort of evidence as to where he had gone. He’d smiled wryly, and then he and Brendon had filled Pete’s backpack with clothes and eyeliner and a straightener and random shit he wanted. He left most of his school supplies. After scribbling a half-assed note and sticking it to the door--honestly “sorry but bye” isn’t a good way to tell everyone you’re never coming back in the best of circumstances--the two vampires had booked it. Pete never wanted to go back there again, and he could tell Brendon had been on edge the whole time.

Now they’re racing back, running for the sake of running, taking the long way home, and Pete’s not even out of breath. Given, he doesn’t need to breathe anymore, but it still baffles him that he can speak and shout and run and not worry about passing out or gasping for air. When Pete speaks, his breath doesn’t steam in the chill night air, and sweat doesn’t drip down his temple. Even though Pete knows it’s cold out, he doesn’t feel it. Probably something to do with the temperature of his own body; he doesn’t produce his own heat anymore. He decides not to dwell on it.

Pete whoops as he jumps over a dumpster, arms flailing, and sticks a perfect landing. He glances behind him to see Brendon swerve around the same object at the last second, smile twisting into something not as pleasant. Pete doesn’t think anything of as Brendon pulls of next to him and gives him a shove. “Show off,” he grins.

“You’re just jealous cause you were too chicken to do it too,” Pete teases. Around them, the buildings grow smaller as they near the suburbs.

“Nah, it’s the shoes,” Brendon jokes, narrowly avoiding running into a streetlight. “These things are fucking uncomfortable; didn’t want to--” he doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence. Instead his right leg gives out and he crashes violently to the pavement, a tangle of limbs and curses.

Pete skids to a stop, nearly falling over himself in his haste to return to his friend. Brendon’s knocked his chin on the ground, and blood oozes from the scrape on his chin as well as the corner of his mouth where he’s bitten his tongue. His suit is dirtied and, as Pete can see when Brendon tries to get up, he’s torn the knee out of the left leg. Pete crouches down next to Brendon and forces him to lie back on the sidewalk. “Dude, shit, are you okay?” he asks, hands hovering over his friend. He’s not sure what to do.

Nodding, Brendon tries to brush off Pete’s searching hands. “I’m fine,” he protests. “I’m fine. I just tripped. I’m fine.” He doesn’t _look_ fine, blood dribbling off his chin and a defeated look in his eyes.

“You’re not--okay fine, whatever. Let’s just get back,” Pete huffs, pulling Brendon up into a sitting position. It surprises him how easy it is to pull him to his feet, and they nearly topple over. Pete, deciding it will be quicker than to wait for him to hobble home on his own, tucks Brendon into his arms and pulls his legs up gently. Brendon grumbles, and although he doesn’t complain about being carried, he also doesn’t put his arm around Pete’s neck to make holding him easier. Not that Pete’s complaining; he discovers that Brendon doesn’t feel heavy. Sometimes being a vampire can come in handy.

“Really,” Brendon mumbles into Pete’s chest. “I’m fine.”

The house that Brendon’s acquisitioned doesn’t seem to come up soon enough. When they reach the porch, Pete gives out a relieved sigh, pushing open the door with his shoulder. The kitchen is the closest room, so Pete lays Brendon out on the table--there’s a noticeable lack of chairs in the room. _This place is a fucking dump._ He shrugs out of his backpack, slinging it out of the way.

There’s a popping sound, and Pete is horrified to discover that he can actually see Brendon’s whole leg shift as his hip tries to align itself. Brendon bites back his cry, but the pain in it is still enough to make Pete’s head swim.

“What the fuck, man? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” Pete asks crossly, once Brendon seems capable of coherence. Unsure what else to do with it, he lays his hand on Brendon’s hip.

“It’s not bad,” Brendon argues. “Vampires don’t take long to heal--I told you that. I’ll be fine. It’s just been stiff, and--and I tripped…” his argument dies on his tongue.

“You didn’t trip,” Pete nearly whispers. It’s not really a question, but Brendon gives the barest shake of his head in answer, his coffee-colored eyes wide.

The movement seems unintentional, because in the next moment Brendon says, “No--yes--I’m fine, I swear. It’s fine.”

But Pete sees the lie in the twist of Brendon’s mouth, sharp teeth not quite hidden by his grimace; he sees how his tendons are pulled taut with tension and pain underneath skin tinted pale blue; he sees how his dark eyes are smeared with bruise-colored circles, wide in the concentration it takes not to cry out. It seems like it's getting worse; his body shifts more frequently, with louder sounds that make the skin on the back of Pete's neck crawl. Brendon is trying to act like it’s not bothering him and utterly failing.

"No it's fucking not," Pete argues crossly. "You're completely fucked up, dude."

"I don't understand," Brendon says helplessly. "I should...I don't understand."

Pete thinks back on last night and the way he could see glowing lines, pink and blue, pulsing beneath skin, and says: "Isn't there...I mean, do we have like--X-ray vision or something cause--I dunno, we could see what's wrong or..." he trails off uncomfortably. Brendon had never mentioned anything like that and he probably sounds like a fucking idiot.

"No." Brendon gingerly shakes his head. "The vespertilio state doesn't work like that: it's only for seeing veins so that you know where to...eat from."

"Well," Pete begins, speaking slowly, "have you ever actually...tried?"

Brendon stares at him. "No, but...what would we do even if we could manage to X-ray my leg? It's not like there's something we could do to fix it, we're not surgeo..." He snaps his jaw shut at the look on Pete's face, who’s trying and failing to look innocent. "No," he says firmly, and shakes his head. "No. Pete, I'm sixteen and—and you were in college for fucking fashion design, not medical school--"

"Would you shut up?" Pete interrupts, ignoring the way his stomach twists when Brendon uses the past tense. "I never said I was going to fucking operate on you, calm the fuck down."

Brendon scowls, and Pete almost laughs at the way their roles have reversed so many times the past few days. First Brendon was dependent on him, then he was trying to kill him, then he was protecting him. Now Pete's back to being the sensible older one.

"Okay well." Pete looks down at where his hand is still pressed to his friend's hip. "We can at least try and see what's going on, right?"

"I guess." Pete can see the way Brendon struggles to pull himself back together, to be the moody and mysterious vampire that he wants to present himself as. "Do you know how?"

Pete shakes his head.

"It's difficult to explain how the vespertilio state works--"

"The what?" He's heard him use that term a couple of times now, although he doesn’t know why the fuck he didn’t tell him about it earlier when he was supposed to be explaining everything.

Brendon huffs out a put-off sigh, lapsing back into his refined Dandy ways. "The state your body reverts to when you need to feed. Your eyes go black, your senses are heightened, and your instincts take over."

"Viper...ti..."

"Vespertilio. It's bat in Latin." At Pete's stare, Brendon shrugs, then winces as the action pulls at tender muscles and skin. "Don't look at me, I didn't name it. Anyway, it's hard to control yourself when you're like that, and it's hard to enter it when you're full."

Pete shifts uncomfortably. "Oh."

"But--it's not impossible. Just difficult. You have to concentrate of giving into your vampire...ness."

That doesn't sound too appealing. Subconsciously, Pete has already been trying to suppress that part of him, drawing on his humanity to blot out the side of him that has become a monster. But Brendon looks fucking awful and like he's in a lot of pain, and Pete knows he would want someone to do the same for him, so he takes a deep breath and focuses on the part of him that thrums with the thirst for blood.

Something slick and oily slides into his veins; his stomach rolls over with the feeling you get when you think there's one more step on the staircase only to find flat ground. "Okay," he says as Brendon's blood vessels start glowing and the scent of blood thickens in his nose. "Okay. So." Brendon's peering curiously at him. "Now what?"

"Um." Brendon bites his lip. "Concentrate?"

So Pete does, narrowing his eyes and focusing on looking beyond the blood. Slowly, a faint outline of Brendon's bones comes into focus, and when it does Pete grimaces. There's a piece of...something stuck halfway in the socket of Brendon's hip. Pete sees the grooves it's worked in the bone over the past few days, can imagine the way it's been steadily digging it's way deeper and doing more harm. It almost glows, shining out a bit brighter than the surrounding outline of Brendon's insides, and something inside Pete twists when he realizes what it looks like. "Shit," he breathes. "Did...did you get stabbed?"

There's a beat of silence, then: "I...yes," Brendon admits. "I don't want to--it was pretty bad." He turns his head away, and if he doesn't want to talk about the way that Beckett fucking tortured him then that's fine whatever no big deal, but something needs to be done about the fucking knife point embedded in Brendon's fucking leg.

"Okay, so I know I said I wouldn't, like, operate on you or anything--" Brendon starts to protest, but Pete cuts him off "--no, shut up. Is there somewhere we can go--I mean obviously we can't go to a hospital--but is there a, um, vampire that we can go to...?"

Brendon shakes his head, a movement so small Pete barely sees it, face scrunched up in pain. He's staying so still that he's not even breathing--though, Pete thinks wryly, he needs to stop being surprised at that. It’s easy to forget to breathe when you don’t have to.

"I think I'm going to--if you're sure there's no other option--I mean, I don't--I--"

"God, just fucking do it already," Brendon laughs breathlessly.

Pete glances around the room, dirty and dark. Not exactly optimal operating conditions. “Here?”

“Where the fuck else?” Brendon snorts.

Pete bristles. “Well excuse me, smart ass. But in case you hadn’t noticed it’s kind of fucking filthy in here and I didn’t know if you had anywhere else in mind.”

Brendon shakes his head, lips pressed thinly together.

Pete nods tersely. “Right. Okay.” He glances around the sparse kitchen. “Do you have any, like, knives, or something?"

“Um, no. There wouldn’t ever be occasion for me to need one.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Pete, we drink _blood_. We don’t need to go around chopping onions,” Brendon replies crossly.

“Speaking of onions,” Pete begins, but Brendon cuts him off.

“God, don’t fucking ask about garlic. It doesn’t do anything.”

Pete makes a popping sound with his lips and nods awkwardly. “Cool.” There’s a tense moment of silence. "Okay, so..."

Brendon sighs, settling his head back on the grain of the table. "Just use your teeth," he murmurs wearily.

"My--my teeth?" Pete splutters. "You mean, like--"

Brendon holds completely still, then pushes himself up onto his elbows. "Yes," he replies, voice completely serious. "And then you'll probably have to pull it out with your hands, obviously, so I would appreciate it if you washed them." He gestures Pete towards the kitchen sink and a sketchy-looking bar of soap.

"I--you--but--" Pete's argument dies on his tongue when he sees Brendon fumble at the buttons of his vest--Pete realizes that he isn’t as calm as he seems when he realizes Brendon’s hands are shaking--then shrug it off. Suspenders slide from his shoulders--what kind of "uniform" do these fucking Dandies have to wear that they don't even get to wear belts?--and his hands start working at the waist of his trousers.

Pete grunts in alarm, trying to look anywhere but at his friend and pretty much failing miserably because he's just now realized that he will have to bite Brendon Urie's hip and fucking shit if that isn't laced with sexual innuendo he doesn't know what is. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible if he wasn't--fuck. Jerkily, he steps to the sink, turning the faucet so violently that he almost pulls the handle off. Brendon looks up at him, amusement sparking in his eyes.

"What?" he teases, and a bit of the teenager Pete knew creeps back into his voice. "Never seen someone with their pants off before?"

"Fuck off," Pete mumbles, scrubbing furiously at his hands with the soap, working off little flecks of blood from when he’d carried Brendon home. Brendon knows exactly who he's seen without their pants on, the little fucker, and he should know that--god damn it. Fuck. Pete rather vividly remembers back in the early days of their friendship, when he had first given Brendon the key code to the dorms (against school policy, but the little bastard had wheedled it out of him god-knows-how) and he had just waltzed into Pete's room when he was rather...compromised.

Okay, okay, he’s not going to be all bashful about this. He wasn't "compromised", he's not an old Southern lady--Mikey fucking Way fucking had his fucking dick in his fucking mouth. Okay? God.

Pete had been mortified; he'd shouted so loudly his voice had splintered. He'd practically shoved Mikey off of him and screamed himself hoarse at Brendon. Thank god it hadn't been the middle of the night, otherwise he was sure he would have gotten noise complaints from students three floors down. Especially when Mikey started asking questions about who the fuck this was, and then, when Pete wouldn’t give him a coherent answer, gave up and left. Pete kind of wondered why he hadn’t kicked Brendon out. Whatever. Didn’t matter. He just knew he felt like his life was going to fucking end _this couldn't be happening_.

Because Pete, for a long time, had tried to keep his sexuality under wraps as much as possible. It hadn't exactly gone well when he'd told his parents and some friends he thought he could _trust_ , so he'd pretty much just kept his mouth shut about it. Sometimes it was just easier to roll with the assumptions and let everyone think you were straight. And the fact that he hadn't exactly gotten the best reaction from anyone before had had Pete's heart in his throat that day as he stared at Brendon and waited for his friend to leave him with some more homophobic bullshit excuses.

So Pete had been left speechless when Brendon had laughed at him instead, throwing him a wink. "Dude chill," the younger boy, then fifteen, had chuckled. He seemed to sense Pete’s fear and was quick to try to reassure him. "You, my friend, are in the presence of Brendon Urie, the bi-est man alive. It's practically my middle name. Brendon Bisexual Urie." A huge shit-eating grin plastered itself onto his face. "I think you'd better go after your boyfriend."

"He's not--my boyfriend," Pete muttered, wishing he wasn't such a fucking pale emo piece of shit because god damn it he was blushing.

Brendon had just smirked. "You sure?" And then he was gone, apparently deciding that whatever he had wanted to say in the first place wasn't important anymore. Pete was left staring after him with a blank expression on his face, unable to believe it. What. The. Fuck.

He had gone after Mikey, but Pete's...whatever, he wasn't his boyfriend, but...yeah. Anyway. Mikey had been fucking pissed, because Pete had just let that fucker come into that room and made Mikey leave and why did he have the access code to his dorm? Did he need to tell him something? What was going on between them--were they just in it for the friends with benefits thing or was Pete going to commit (he freaked out there, probably where things had really started going wrong)? Was it even worth it if Pete was just going to fuck around with obviously underage kids (he wasn’t, but that was obviously beside the point)? And that was the last Pete saw of him except for the occasional glance around campus, the hastily averted eye contact and stiff shoulders of someone who clearly doesn’t want to talk to you.

Pete drags himself back into the present, scowling murderously at Brendon, who shoots him a coy grin. "Shut up," Pete snaps, flicking his wrists to get the excess water off of them. There aren't any towels, of course.

Brendon pulls the smile from his face with difficulty, but it lingers in his eyes. "Aw, Pete, I thought you'd be happier. You finally have your chance to get into my pants," he teases.

Pete just snorts and rolls his eyes. Yes, he has noticed before that Brendon is kind of—okay, really—hot, but not in that way. He's sixteen, for god's sake, never mind that Pete has always seen Brendon as more of an annoying little brother that you can't get rid of rather than a romantic interest. Thinking about Brendon that way actually makes his stomach feel uneasy. So it'll be fine. Fine. It'll be fine.

Actually, really fucking awkward is what it'll be, but the mantra of _fine fine fine fine_ is what Pete loops through his head.

"Oh, just get on with it," Brendon whines, tugging at the waist of his pants. The hem of his shirt rides up over his stomach, and Pete sucks in a breath at the ugly purple-brown bruise blooming across his skin. Brendon notices Pete's concern and hastily pulls his shirt back down, but Pete pushes his hands away and grasps numbly at the buttons, moves the starched cloth aside. He bites his lip. Brendon refuses to meet his eyes. "It was bad," the younger vampire says softly, reiterating what he had told Pete earlier about how Beckett had beaten him.

"No shit," Pete chokes, brushing his still-damp fingers over the messy bruises. They run all the way from dark blotches on his sides to pale acid green streaks across his chest, back to deep purple prints around his throat. They'd been hidden under his high collar, but as Pete pushes Brendon's shirt back he can see the extent of the damage now. "Holy fuck, Bren, how are you even functioning?"

Brendon laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound. He winces when his body jolts against the hard wood table. "Vampires can take a lot more than humans," he says bitterly, a sick smile curling onto his face. "And Beckett knows exactly how much more. Actually, it was more than he thought apparently, because I'm pretty sure he expected me to die when he was done with me. But I'm not some weak fucker who lies around and dies so I--" his voice, which has steadily been growing more flustered, cracks, and his eyes flutter shut. "I--" he says, then stops again. 

Pete waits. He's beginning to wonder if he'll ever get the full story out of Brendon. All he's been given are bits and pieces so few and far between he still has only the vaguest idea of what happened.

Brendon opens his eyes. "Just do it," he mumbles. "Goddam, get it over with already."

Pete draws his hands back from the frigid expanse of Brendon's skin. He takes a breath to ground himself, to get the stale feeling out of his lungs. So many bruises. Pete can only imagine how he looked like when it happened if it was five days ago and vampires heal abnormally fast and--it seems like he's going to have to dig the knife point out of his leg after all.

Suddenly, Pete is struck with the idea of hey, you know, this whole amateur-operating-on-your-friend-and-using-your-fucking-teeth-to-do-it thing might not be the best of plans, and gasps out, "Wait, wait. Wait. Holy shit dude, how. But."

A scowl crumples Brendon's features. "You're the one who wanted to do this."

"Yeah, but it's just really starting to hit me now," Pete breathes dizzily. "I don't know--I mean, there's a reason I never wanted to be a doctor. I'm not sure that I could deal with--" He swallows, most definitely not thinking about the sight of skin and blood vessels and muscle and bone flayed open and bared to the air.

"Once you become a vampire," Brendon says sensibly, as one might discuss the finer points of golf, "the sight of blood and guts really doesn't bother you as much as be--" he breaks off, eyes wide, as his hip attempts to grind back into place again. He looks like he's trying to speak--his mouth opens and closes, lips moving to form words--but he's forgotten how to breathe. His head slams back on the table and he convulses, hands scrabbling at his leg, brushing over the skin like they're trying to fix it but it's not working and holy shit Pete has to take a step back because the pain on Brendon's face is unbearable, ten hundred thousand million times worse than when Pete was bitten or his hand was broken, and fuck he's really going to have to do this isn't he.

And now a scream finally tears it's way past Bren's lips, guttural and inhuman, high and screeching, the torment of a thousand years to come all wrapped up in a sound that rips through the air and crashes into the walls and Pete's pretty sure that the whole world has become this sound, that it's chased all the air out of the room and what he breathes when he sucks in a breath is pure agony.

Pete doesn't know what to do; he can't exactly do anything with Brendon thrashing around. How has he lasted five days like this? Panic stabs at his stomach, closes his throat. Pete doesn’t know if he can take much more, let alone Brendon.

Thankfully, Brendon's leg stops trying to shove itself back into place against the metal point embedded in it, and the vampire just lays there on the table motionless. Pete worries for a moment that he's died, but remembers that he was basically already dead before all this and doesn't need to breathe so stop worrying about the stillness of his chest god.

After a moment of neither of them moving, Brendon draws in a shaky breath to speak.

"For fuck's sake," he rasps, "at this point if you don't do it I will." He struggles to sit up, finally pulling down the waist of his trousers. Interestingly, though the rest of his clothing is accurate circa 1920 attire, he's wearing regular modern day boxer briefs.

Pete's throat closes as his rests his hand on Brendon's. "No it's--I'll do it."

Gratitude floods the younger boy's chocolate eyes, and right before he tugs his underwear off of one hip Pete lets himself sink into the vespertilio state, because then the rest of Brendon's body that’s not being used to transport blood becomes muted and unimportant and that--that's a good thing right now.

"Hey, hey wait," Brendon interrupts Pete before his can meet his skin, lips a breath away from biting down. "I feel like this is going to really fucking hurt so..." He bares his wrist.

Standing a bit straighter, Pete circles the other vampire's slender wrist with his fingers, pulls it close. Instinct takes over and he doesn't even have to think about what he's doing as he presses his lips to the inside of Brendon's wrist. He pricks the skin with his front fangs and thinks out instead of in. Numbing venom flows from the teeth into Brendon's bloodstream and almost instantly the other vampire relaxes, head falling back on the table. Venom isn't as effective on vampires as it is on humans, Pete remembers, so he'll have to work fast.

He draws his head back to Brendon's hip, and the smell of blood is strong and pungent but stale, and Pete doesn't really want to bite him that much. Relaxing into the vespertilio state, however, brings the knife-point back into sharp focus, and Pete can't just leave that there to slowly kill his friend.

Pressing his lips to Brendon's skin, Pete can feel the lean muscle beneath, clenching painfully around the wound. The skin itself is smooth and unmarred, healed over without a scar, but the damage beneath is terrible.

And then he bites, slow and firm, digging into the flesh with teeth meant for just that. Old blood floods Pete's mouth, a quick burst, and then the flow ebbs. Without a heart to beat it through his veins, Brendon's blood doesn't gush as quickly from the wound as a human's would. The razor line of his fangs tears through muscle with ease. Pete grunts in frustration when he realizes that this as deep as his teeth will sink in, and he pulls back. He dips his head back down in a slightly different place, trying to open a line in the skin he can pull the metal object out from, but it turns crooked and messy, slippery with blood, and he growls in frustration.

"Would you hurry?" Brendon grates.

"Not if you keep nagging me," Pete snaps back. He nips at the edges of the wound with his incisors, saturating the surrounding skin with venom so that it doesn't stich back together as fast as he can tear it apart.

All his queasiness towards the blood is gone when he's like this, all animal and instinct and cold, so it doesn't bother Pete at all, when it's long and wide enough, to sink his fingers into the incision. For a moment his vision flashes normal at the squish of muscle and sinew beneath his fingertips, but he bites back his humanity and focuses on the part of him that revels in the feel of gore beneath his touch.

His fingers slip down down down and then—oh god, that's his bone. Pete's touching bone. It's hard to not worry about the fact that he's operating on his friend now, and Pete has to really concentrate to keep himself in the vespertilio state. He sees the knife point, tries to grasp at it with his fingers, but it's slick with blood and he can't grab ahold of it at all. Hissing in frustration, Pete fumbles around the edges of the metal, only succeeding in making more of a mess of Brendon's insides. A flicker of panic alights in Pete's chest when he sees the edges of the skin he's bitten apart start to close, sealing off with the faintest of scars. He grabs more frantically at the piece of weapon.

It seems like a race against time, and Pete nearly catches it a few times, but he can't quite—get it—out. If anything it seems to dig itself deeper, burrowing between bone and bone. Blood coats Pete's fingers, muscle slides across his skin, and everything is so fucking slick that he can't grasp at anything. He's not sure, even if he could grab ahold of it, if he could get it out anyway. It seems firmly stuck between the ball and socket of Brendon's hip, torn cartilage in its wake. Pushing heavily against his leg to try to move it out of the way, goddam he's got to—

"Holy fucking shit," Pete swears, jumping back from the table when Brendon's hip gives out an atrocious pop and moves several inches. His vision flickers to normal as Brendon cries out. He stares at the wound; he's much stronger than he anticipated. Almost immediately the muscles and tendons tighten, start to pull the bones back together. Pete springs into action, snatching the metal shard out just as the hip slips back into the socket. It catches under his fingernail, and he swears as he draws his hand away. Plucking the metal piece from his finger (goddam that hurts), Pete watches Brendon's wound sew itself together.

"Hey," the other vampire rasps, smiling weakly. Relief flickers on his face. "I don't want it to scar over. You'd better fix it."

"Ah, yeah...right." Brendon's hip is still bared, a red seam slowly disappearing into pale skin, but a paler line follows. Pete dips his head lower and slides his tongue along the angular bone, tracing the messy incision he'd made. Brendon's skin is cold beneath his mouth, and feels dead. It’s unnerving and Pete hates the task with all of his guts, but he knows Brendon would do nothing but bitch if Pete let the wound scar.

Finally Pete lifts his head; he's flooded with embarrassing memories at the sight of a line of spit stretching between his lips and Brendon's skin, so he jerks away and goes to wash his hands again. They're coated in blood, dark and slick. He rubs at his face, startled at the amount of blood he washes off. He hears Brendon moving around on the table, presumably pulling his clothes back on. His feet hit the floor, sturdy in his gait; his footsteps patter close to Pete.

"You missed a spot." The grin in Brendon's voice is practically audible.

Pete ducks away from Brendon's reach and swipes at his chin again with his own hands. "Thanks." His voice is strained.

Brendon frowns. "Hey, look, I'm not going to make this awkward if you don't make this awkward."

Pete doesn't reply, staring at the pink-tinted water that swirls and disappears down the drain. That’s not it. It’s not because--because of what Brendon thinks it’s about. This shit just isn’t for him. He can’t fucking deal with being a vampire. It’s just sort of hitting him all at once, that this is real, this is really fucking real. Okay, so it might have been a little of what Brendon thinks it is, but he can deal with that, really. Everything else is what’s got him. He clenches his fingers, acutely aware of Brendon's presence next to him. He can _smell_ the cold on him, like it has it’s own scent. It’s the scent of dead skin and the linoleum floor and dried blood and starched clothes and dusty cotton. This isn’t normal and he’s not sure if he can deal with it if Brendon keeps acting like nothing’s happened. The younger vampire seems adamant on pretending everything’s the same as it was a week ago and--it’s not. If he wants to be all jokey and lighthearted about the situation then fine, he can go do that somewhere else. But Pete can’t--he can’t--things are different now. Brendon, with his stupid fucking Dandy-ness, is sandpapering his nerves down to nothing.

Of course Pete doesn’t say any of this. “It’s not awkward,” he snaps instead. “Just--things are different now. I’m a fucking vampire and maybe I just need a little time to get used to it, okay?” He pulls his hands away from the sink, flexing his fingers since they’d started to ache from holding on so tightly. Pete notices the blood staining Brendon’s clothes and smeared under his chin--the gash there has already healed--and feels an irrational flash of anger for making him go through all of this.

Finally--finally, god damn it--Brendon seems to lose a little of his composure, shrinking away from Pete slightly. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine.” He glances away. “So, since the sun’s almost up I’m, um, just going to be upstairs. Resting.” He takes a half step, jerky and uncertain like he expects Pete to say something, then rushes out of the room.

Pete watches him go, mixed emotions swirling deep and unsettling in the pit of his stomach. It feels strange, this divide between them. Their friendship has always been easy and unforced, one of the only things Pete could count on not to change when they were human. And now--now all this shit’s happened. A cavity opens up in Pete’s chest when he realizes--this is it, now. There’s no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was the promised Petekey in the tags. All two or however many paragraphs it was haha. Please leave comments and tell me what you think! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's out now and I'm going to try to write at least 1000 words per day, so hopefully updates will come more frequently now. ^^

This time Brendon seeks him out, just after sunset. There’s something shaded in his expression, guarded behind the layer of refinedness Pete’s come to realize comes from being a Dandy.

“We’re going to meet the Priest,” he drawls, voice all at once lazy and demanding. Pete fucking hates it.

“Why?” Pete retorts.

Brendon levels him with a cool gaze. “It’s something that every vampire pup should do. I went. It can be enlightening.”

“Okay sure, fine. Let’s go.” _Some fucking explanation that is._

The run through the city is absolutely silent, save for the sound of air whooshing past Pete’s pointed ears and the slap of feet against pavement. In no time, they’re climbing the steps of a cathedral Pete vaguely recognizes, though he’s never been inside. Brendon doesn’t so much as knock, just shoves open the door with an angry shoulder. He doesn’t wait to see if Pete follows.

The air inside is cool and musty, the ceilings tall and imposing. The heels of Brendon’s shoes click smartly against the floor; he’s already halfway across the room, and Pete hurries to catch up to him. They stop at a door, but Brendon doesn’t yank this one open like Pete had expected him to. Instead he just stands there, waiting, bowler hat pulled down low over his eyes. His posture is stiff, refined. More than that, Pete realizes. It’s tense. Nervous. Pete wonders if he should be too, if the Priest is someone he should be afraid of.

The door creaks as it opens, and Brendon steps aside, jerks his head towards Pete. _Go in,_ the movement says. Pete stares at Brendon. He doesn’t want to go in there alone! Brendon rolls his eyes as if he can hear Pete’s unspoken argument and makes another exasperated motion with his head. Pete thinks that Brendon might be staying silent for a reason, so he bites back a few choice words and takes a tentative step through the doorway. It closes behind him with a sigh.

It takes less than a second for Pete’s eyes to adjust to the gloom, and when they do he sees he’s in a short hallway. Bookcases are built into and line the walls, and another door sits at the end of it. Pete crosses the room in an instant, eager to get this over with. He grabs the door handle, ready to enter the room, but leaps back with a yelp, shaking his hand. “Fucking--” he swears, looking down at the rapidly fading burn on the palm of his hand. The air stinks of cooked flesh, even more pungent to Pete’s advanced senses.

Approaching with more caution this time, Pete peers at the handle. It appears normal enough, and when he holds his hand over it he doesn’t feel any heat radiating from it. But when he goes to touch it again, it sears his hand again, even more painful than the first time. Pete doubles over, swearing under his breath, hand clutched to his middle. The ugly red wound blisters and fades slower than before, although still quickly. His hand feels all tingly, and he shakes it until the feeling passes.

Pete frowns at the door handle, then looks back down the hall. Maybe he’s not supposed to go in there? But there are no other doors, and Pete’s pretty sure that Brendon wouldn’t have told him to go down here just for kicks. Realization sinks deep in his belly when his gaze lands on the door handle again. Pete braces himself, gritting his teeth, and shoots his hand out to grab the handle. It burns, oh god it burns. His flesh hisses, sending off a faint puff of smoke. Pete thinks he might pass out. “Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _fuckfuckfuck_ \--” Pete swears, twisting the handle to the side. Thankfully, it moves easily, and as soon as he can, Pete steps through the door, still swearing softly under his breath. His hand is cramping, skin burned away and muscles singed. It hurts like a motherfucker, and Pete takes a moment to let the wound stop throbbing so damn much before he look around again.

The room beyond is even darker, lit ominously with candles. Pete swallows. “Hello?” he calls.

With no warning, lights flicker on overhead, sharp fluorescent bulbs that leave Pete squinting, beams of color swimming across his vision. His eyes are much better at adjusting to the dark than to the light, it seems. Pete squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, and now he sees the man at the desk.

He’s bald, with the pale, washed out skin of all vampires, although it has a milkier tone to it, papery and soft-looking. Interestingly, his ears are normally shap--nevermind. As Pete watches, the round shape of the man’s ears flickers into something longer and more pointed than he’s seen on any vampire, and Pete wonders if he hadn’t seen them before was because he’d been _compelled_ not to--useful for deceiving humans, he supposes--and how old he must be to have ears like that. They curve up nearly to the top of his head. The way they frame his gaunt face, Pete thinks, is really the picture of stereotypical vampireness. It’s a rather unsettling image. But what really puts Pete on edge are his eyes. They’d faded away from their dark brown color at the same time his ears had, and they’re fucking _creepy._ They’re like some kind of fucking _reverse_ eyes or some shit, black where the white should be, ivory-colored pupils, and dark blood-red irises.

The man rises, smile just this side of sinister. There’s something more threatening in the long curve of his fangs than in any other vampire Pete’s met. “Welcome,” he croons, sounding anything but welcoming. His voice is soft and leathery, yet penetrating and deep. It cuts right into Pete, slicing through his skin and muscle to settle in his bones.

Fear boils dark and dangerous in Pete’s belly. He swallows, trying to appear at ease, trying to tell himself that he doesn’t need to be so tense he can hardly move. Doesn’t really work. His throat clenches, and he has to focus on not throwing up. Tar--it feels like there’s tar in his veins, running sluggishly through his body and freezing his limbs in place. It’s deeper than even Brendon’s most powerful compel, like it has taken ahold of his soul and is squeezing it. Pete thinks he might pass out. Panic sparks in his chest, but the onslaught of lethargy in his limbs prevents him from moving, from getting the _fuck_ out of there.

The Priest grins again, waving his hand towards the chair in front of his desk. “You are welcome to take a seat,” he invites.

Against his will and almost before he realizes it, Pete finds himself sitting in the chair. It’s wooden and hard and uncomfortable and he sits there stiffly, jaw clenching as he tries to speak.

The Priest sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers and peering at Pete with his unnerving eyes. “I am sure you must have questions for me,” he says softly. “Ask away.”  
Of course the first word that flies out of Pete’s is a vehement “ _FUCK._ ”

The Priest takes it in stride, without even a twitch of an eyelid. “Not really a question,” he muses.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Pete gasps, not even trying to censor his profanity. “What the fuck--what’s going on, who are you--what the _fuck_ \--”

“As Mr. Urie has told you, I am the Priest,” the Priest replies amiably. Except for the lock on Pete’s limbs and the thick tar in his veins, Pete would feel almost relaxed. The man’s voice is relaxing, curling soothingly around his bones. “I am here to answer your questions. It has become somewhat of a tradition for pups to see me when they are first turned.” His smile darkens. “As I recall, Mr. Urie was full of questions, and I equally full of answers to give him.”

Pete swallows against his hysteria. It doesn’t make sense for him to feel so panicked, he tells himself. Death doesn’t seem like a likely outcome of the situation. “Um,” Pete stalls, trying to kick start his brain into thinking up some questions. The Priest sits patiently, silent, motionless, watching Pete, who squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t think with those eyes staring at him.

Finally: “Who--what. Who are you? Other than, than the Priest.”

One side of the Priest’s mouth quirks upwards in a smile. “I am a keeper of records, and lineages. You remember the books out in the hallway? Those outline the history of vampire lines. I could tell you exactly who made who and when. It is more important than you would think,” he adds when Pete frowns, “because it also dictates hierarchy.”

Pete bites his lip and nods, slowly. A thought crosses his mind. “Wait so does that mean--Beckett? Is he like, old? Is that--oh my go-gosh. Gosh. That’s why he wears like 1920 shit, right?”

The Priest nods, pleased. “Very good, Peter.”

“But I didn’t--”

“Tell me your name? You didn’t need to. You forget that I know everyone in this city.” Although his tone is light, there’s a malice in the Priest’s words that sends shivers racing down Pete’s spine. He’s still incapable of moving anything besides his head. “Yes, William Beckett is ‘old’. His circa 1920 attire is simply the result of him not wanting to keep up with the latest fashion trends, but he was originally turned in 1865. He is, in fact, one of the oldest vampires in the city. He has ensured it.”

“Ensured--does he kill them all?”

“Yes.” The Priest’s voice has gone quiet, hard as diamond. “Much as I have warned him against it, he always insists on resorting to violence to solve his problems.” He spreads his bony hands in a helpless gesture, though Pete suspects he is anything but that.

“Are you one of the other ones? The older ones, I mean.”

“Yes,” the Priest says again, and doesn’t elaborate.

Pete doesn’t know what else to say. He’s already received all the information he can think to ask about from Brendon. Well. Actually, there’s been something on the back of his mind, but he doesn’t know how Brendon would take it. Or if it’s even worth asking.

“Just ask, Peter,” the Priest prompts quietly.

“Is it possible for a vampire to live and not be a Dandy or Clandestine?” Pete blurts. He expects his question to be shot down and to be told he needs to join one soon or die.

“It is not impossible,” the Priest says instead.

Pete stares at him. “Wait--really?”

“Really,” the Priest agrees. And then his gaze grows more piercing, if possible; Pete feels it graze his soul. He makes a thoughtful noise, the white of his pupils contracting and dilating again. It’s thoroughly unsettling, and Pete’s reminded that this guy really isn’t as harmless as he seems. “Peter,” he not-quite-whispers. “Do not worry. He will be fine.”

“I--what? Brendon?” Pete asks.

“You may think that you will die without him, but you will not; he can take care of himself. It will turn out alright,” he says as way of answer. Which isn’t much of an answer.

“What?” Pete repeats dumbly.

“I do believe you need to go,” the Priest says amiably.

“What?” But he’d just gotten here!

“Mr. Urie requires rescuing. You had better go save him.”

“Bren--what?” Honestly he needs to find better words to say this is getting ridiculous.

The Priest gestures towards the door, and Pete feels his muscles unfreeze. “There is not much else we can talk about anyway. Until we meet again, Peter.” Pete blinks and he’s gone. The only evidence that he’d been there was the thin trail of smoke rising from a recently snuffed candle. It must have gone out when he’d left the room, moving so quickly that the flame flickered out.

Uncertainly, Pete stands and turns to face the door--and almost jumps out of his skin. The Priest is holding the door open, smiling in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring but instead just comes across as perverse instead. His hand rests comfortably on the door knob, and Pete gives him a wary look as he passes. “I will see you in the future, Peter,” the Priest calls to Pete’s retreating back, “Stay safe.” The door closes. _Like he’s actually concerned about my safety,_ Pete scoffs.

Before he gets too far, he turns back and reaches for the doorknob again because--“Ah, fuck,” he swears. Yeah. Still burns.

Disgruntled, Pete clenches his hand and walks out of the hallway. If he casts a more interested glance in the direction of the heavy volumes on the walls he doesn’t tell anyone. His sensitive ears pick up the faint murmur of voices behind the door ahead, and as he pulls it open he looks around for who might have been talking. He thinks he feels a gust of air past his face--this place is drafty.

A brooding Brendon appears from the shadows, looking up at Pete from under hooded eyelids. Doesn’t look like he needs any rescuing to him. “That didn’t take very long.” The way he says it is almost accusatory.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pete bristles.

“I didn’t say you did,” Brendon retorts. He looks troubled, and that just sets off Pete more. If he’s so bothered with being around him then why doesn’t he just crawl back to his fucking Dandies?

Pete bites back the question, gritting out, “Let’s just go back. This was pointless,” instead.

Brendon gives Pete a curious look. “Really? Because when I came it was actually very...enlightening. He managed to answer a lot of questions for me.”

“Well, all he did was manage to give me more,” Pete says curtly.

Looking down at the ground, Brendon fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “Well I’m. I’m sorry it didn’t work out as well for you. I just thought maybe…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“Thought what?” Pete crosses his arms. It’s not supposed to be an angry gesture, more of him not knowing what to do with his arms and so putting them there instead, but Brendon stiffens at it all the same. _Whatever._

“I dunno, that it would help you.” Brendon shrugs.

“I don’t need any help,” Pete argues.

“God, calm down,” Brendon snaps, heading towards the entrance. “You don’t have to get all defensive. I’m only trying to help you.”

Under his breath, Pete mutters, “I just _said_ I don’t need help.” He’s pretty sure Brendon hears him by the way his step catches, but the other vampire doesn’t even look at him. Pete knows it’s petty, but he gloats at the little victory nevertheless. Brendon’s rubbed him wrong so many times it’s nice to see him getting it back.

As they near the front door, Brendon gives what seems like the eightieth shifty glance into the shadows. “What are you looking at?” Pete asks crossly. Everything the other vampire does is putting him on edge.

“Nothing,” Brendon answers immediately, then pauses. “Just--” he cuts himself off and brings his fingertips to the brim of his hat, touching it lightly. “Nothing,” he repeats, then tugs on his suit jacket to pull the wrinkles from it.

They leave the building, and almost before Pete’s foot hits the sidewalk Brendon’s hand his on his arm and he’s frowning at him. “Are--are you hungry?” he asks, concerned.

“No,” Pete lies. Actually, he’s felt the annoyed grumble in his stomach of hunger for the last twelve hours or so, but he sure as hell isn’t going to tell that to Brendon. “I’m fine. Peachy.”

Brendon frowns. “Are you sure? When you’re young you typically need to eat more, and I’m starting to feel hungry so I thought that you would be too.”

“Well maybe you thought wrong,” Pete retorts. His stomach feels on the verge of making a noise, and he wills it to stay quiet. If it grumbles there’s no way that Brendon won’t hear. Thankfully, the feeling subsides.

“I was just asking,” Brendon mumbles, wounded.

“Really--I’m fine,” Pete reassures him. There’s no way he’s going to feed off of someone. He hated vampires when he was human, and he hates them now; if the only way that he can hurt them is to hurt himself, well then maybe that’ll just have to do.

“Alright…” Brendon doesn’t look too sure, but he doesn’t ask again, either. At least not until they get home.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want anything to eat, it’s been a few days now and--”

“I’m fine,” Pete grits, brushing past Brendon into the house. “And don’t you mean any _one_?”

Brendon stares after Pete for a moment before following him. “So that’s what this is about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” mutters Pete, crossing his arms and fixing his friend with an irritated stare.

“Pete,” Brendon begins, exasperated, “you have to eat to live. You can’t just _not_ feed.”

Pete shakes his head. “Can you not fucking say that?”

“What? What don’t you want me to say, Pete,” Brendon’s voice is rising. “That you’ll fucking die if you don’t fucking get over yourself and just drink some fucking blood already?”

“No, _feed_ ,” Pete hisses, ignoring the rest of what Brendon had to say. “It’s a fucking ugly word that doesn’t make me feel any better about the fact that I’m a fucking parasite, okay?”

“Okay, fine,” Brendon throws his hands up, “fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that you need to _eat_ , Pete.”

“I’m. Fine.”

“You are not _fine_ ,” snaps Brendon, tearing off his hat so he can yank his fingers through his hair. He gives a frustrated grunt and pushes it back out of his eyes. “You have some fucking deathwish or something.”

Pete clenches his teeth, fingers flexing with the effort it takes not fucking _strangle_ Brendon right now.

“Trust me,” Brendon warns, “it gets worse. Much worse. If you don’t eat now you’ll do something later that you’ll regret. I’ve seen it happen. I don’t want you to have to go through tha--”

“Oh my god would you shut up about the ‘things you’ve seen’,” Pete interrupts. “You have literally been a vampire for what, a fucking week? You have no right to lecture me on what will happen to me if I feel a little hungry.”

“That’s a week more than you,” Brendon shoots back. “So maybe you should listen to the person who’s kept you alive the whole time without a vampire gang breathing down our necks?”

“And about that.” Pete’s really gaining momentum now. “I’m not coming back to those fucking Dandy bastards with you.”

“What?” Brendon seems caught off guard. “No! Pete, I would never make you go back there. That’s the last thing you should do.”

“I--wait really?” Pete hadn’t been expecting that.

Brendon shakes his head. “That’s not an option for you anymore, not since Beckett pretty much hates your guts. I was going to take you to the Clandestines. I mean, I’d rather you didn’t go with them either, but at this point we don’t have much cho--”

“No.”

“No... _what_?”

“I’m not going to join a fucking gang,”

“You--Pete. Is this because of what I said the other day? I know I didn’t really make either of them seem appealing, but the alternative isn’t much better.”

“I am capable of m-making my own decisions, you know,” Pete seethes. God, his voice is trembling. “Not everything you say has a profound impact on m-me, believe it or not.”

“I didn’t say that,” Brendon defends.

“You didn’t have to,” Pete shoots back. “But you--you think you’re so fucking high and m-mighty, all above everything with your little suit and fucking suspenders and shit.”

“I do not,” Brendon splutters, following Pete when he turns and stalks into the next room. “I’m just trying to help you. And don’t--if you aren’t going to join the Clandestines where will you go? There’s nowhere else.” He sounds genuinely distressed, and Pete turns around to stare at him. Now, right fucking now, after all the shit he’s put Pete through, after going back and forth between being someone who resembles his old friend and a complete Dandy stranger, _now_ he decides to show some fucking emotion.

“I can--I can take care of m-myself,” Pete says, making his voice as cold as he can, colder even than his skin or the chilly Chicago air.

Brendon pulls up short, staring at Pete like he’s looking at a stranger, and it’s about damn time that he realized things have changed. “Pete,” he says searchingly.

“Don’t,” Pete warns. “All you’ve done is--is m-make things f-fucking ter-rible. And--and--” Pete shakes his head. “And…” A sudden wave of nausea washes over him. “Fuck,” he garbles, stumbling and crashing into the wall. He’s unbearably dizzy and the hallway is swimming, tumbling, twirling. It’s all he can do not to throw up. It’s just the thought that it’d probably all be blood and really disgusting that keeps him from doing so.

Pete can just barely make out Brendon crouching down next to him, reaching out a worried hand, but he’s not concerned with that. The empty pull of his stomach has no time for the old blood in the vampire’s veins.

“Pete,” Brendon breathes. “Are you okay?”

The world goes fuzzy for a second, the dark walls of the house fading to almost black and Pete thinks he might pass out, but then everything comes back into a knife-sharp clarity so quickly and so intensely that it hurts. Pete has to squeeze his eyes shut. Everything is oversaturated, bright, stabbing, bold. He moans and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“Pete!” Brendon’s voice sounds far away and washy.

“I’m fine,” Pete whimpers. His teeth ache. Why do his teeth ache? It’s like having goddam braces all over again.

“You’re not fucking--shit, Pete,” Brendon says helplessly. He has his hands on Pete, and Pete doesn’t fucking care if he’s trying to help because it feels like he’s being _smothered_. He shoves Brendon away, throat clenching.

“Don’t touch me.” He means for it to come out biting and forceful, but he just sounds pathetic and pleading instead. Reluctantly, Brendon draws back, and Pete focuses on not throwing up or passing out. The last thing he needs is for Brendon to be so worried that he goes and gets another person for him to--to _eat_. No. He’s fine. He’s fine, look, see? He’s sitting up. Fine. Totally a-okay.

It’s a struggle, but Pete pushes down the sick feeling burning in his stomach, ignores the way the hall light ripples across his vision. He stares Brendon in the eye and attempts to make his voice as convincing as possible when he says, “Look, Bren, thanks for worrying, but I’m fine. Really.”

Brendon looks like he doesn’t believe him. “I don’t believe you,” he states, crossing his arms. “You know, extreme dizziness or a sick feeling is one of the signs of hunger in a vampire, because without blood in your system your body starts to shut do--”

“Gotcha,” Pete interrupts, passing a hand over his eyes. Slowly, he stands, leaning against the wall so that he doesn’t have to hold his whole weight and he’s not in as much danger of toppling over.

“Pete,” Brendon says, softly, gently.

“Brendon,” Pete returns coolly.

Brendon gives him a careful look. “I’m going to go out for a bit. I’ll be back with someone.” He turns to go.

“No!” Pete blurts, immediately wishing he could take the word back. “No, ah, I mean, don’t. I don’t need it. I can take care of myself.”

Brendon scowls and opens his mouth, “Pete you ne--”

“Fuck off,” Pete interrupts, fighting to keep his voice steady. He doesn’t need Brendon’s bullshit right now. “Just leave me the fuck alone.” He pushes himself off the wall, not moving quickly but not in immediate danger of collapsing either.

He stalks--slowly--out of the house, making sure to slam the door behind him as loudly as possible. Thankfully Brendon doesn’t follow, but Pete can hear him inside muttering to himself. Pete doesn’t even want to go anywhere, just needs to not be in the same building as Brendon right now, so he sits down on the porch steps and puts his head in his hands. “God damn it,” he whispers. At this point it’s nearly impossible to ignore the painful clench of his stomach, and now that he’s felt the first effect of hunger, the rubberiness of his limbs is only getting worse.

The couple of days since he’s last eaten feels like an eternity. Yes, he’s hungry, desperately so, but Pete doesn’t know what to do about that. Well, he does, but he doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Pressure builds Pete’s eyes, and he pushes his face father into his hands. And now, finally, his stomach rolls over into a grumble, and that seems to just set it off. Now that his body has accepted he’s hungry, his mind has started to as well. Even though he’s not cold--he can’t be cold ever again--a shiver races across his skin, makes the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. It’s not that the temperature of the air is bothering him, more that he can feel it move against his skin and it’s overwhelming. Pete never thought he’d be glad to say he doesn’t need to breathe, but he is. The air is suffocating, wisping around his nose and mouth like a gag; he nearly chokes on it.

Pete pushes himself to his feet, waving his arms in front of his face as if that will dispel the offending gas particles, and nearly falls right back over. Growling, as if that will help anything, Pete bares his teeth at the empty night. Something crawls under his skin, itching for action, and Pete has to hold back from launching himself into the night. Although, the more he thinks about it, the more appealing that prospect seems--

“Holy shit,” Pete swears, scrambling back until his back is pressed against the front of the house. He clenches his eyes shut when his vision flickers over into the vespertilio state. He will not allow himself to be taken over by the monster living underneath his skin. The last time that happened he had felt perfectly content to keep drinking from that human until he killed him. He doesn’t need a repeat of that.

Inside. He needs to get inside. Away from the air that carries smells of people warm in scent and feeling. Yeah. He just needs to get inside and then he’ll...he’ll be fine. God, he’s been trying to be _fine_ a lot lately. Probably because fine is the best he can hope for since he’s a fucking _monster_. But yes. If he can just get inside he’ll--he’ll suck it up and talk to Brendon and it’ll all be okay.

Pete takes a step off the front porch towards the street, the warm smell of blood flooding his nostrils.

His vision clouds over.

* * *

The corner he’s hiding in is dark, darker even than the rest of the night. Ahead, bright bulbs flood a square with light. Several people rush quickly across it, hands by the weapons at their hips. Somewhere in his mind he knows that looking for food at a hunter’s agency is a fucking terrible idea, but he’s not really in control right now. Besides, this is the only place he’s found where there are people outside.

He creeps forward until he’s at the edge of his shadow. A man with black hair that sweeps into his pretty face stops right in front of him as he adjusts one of the weapons on his belt that had been slipping. He can’t even see the vampire hiding feet away; the blinding glare of the floodlights makes it impossible to see into the darkness beyond.

If he would just step a bit closer...no, fuck, he’s moving away again. The vampire makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat, and the man stops and peers into the dark, hand moving slowly towards his hip. No no, none of that, the vampire thinks, and then darts forward to grab the man by the neck.

And god, _god_ , he can feel the blood pulsing quick and frantic in his arteries. It nearly scalds his frigid hand with its warmth, and the vampire pulls him close greedily. He doesn’t take the time to map out the man’s skin, to run his mouth over it until he’s sure where he wants to puncture; no, he just digs right in, pumping venom in and blood out.

The man tries to cry out, to struggle away, but even though his thin form is well-muscled he stands no chance against a starving vampire, and venom is quick-acting. Soon his struggles grow weak and sedated; he becomes limp in the vampire’s arms. Even in his crazed hunger, he knows that if he doesn’t stop feeding soon he could kill the man, but he doesn’t...really...care.

Blood sloshes warmly in his stomach, and he pulls back for a moment to check that he’s still alone, that there aren’t any hunters that have noticed their friend’s absence. A rumble vibrates through his chest when he sees two other people standing in the middle of the lights, talking worriedly and glancing around. One of them calls out, maybe the man’s name. The vampire growls and pulls his prey deeper into the shadows, pressing his face into his neck again. He can’t let him go free. Not alive.

Growling, not his own, sounds from somewhere behind him, and the vampire raises his blood-stained face to snarl at whoever dares to disturb his meal. Another vampire stands a few feet away. Although his suit is black, he has no trouble seeing him with his night vision. He regards the newcomer warily, but when he makes no move to take his prey, he relaxes slightly.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you tell me you were fine,” he says, voice dripping with sorrow. The vampire flinches at the unexpected voice. “And I’m sorry it had to come to this, but _put him down._ ”

The vampire nearly drops the human at the power in his voice. Almost mechanically, he sets him down on the ground, where he moans faintly.

“ _Step away from him._ ” His voice is soft but the words are hard, pressing against his skin and wrapping around his limbs to jerk them into action. “ _Look at me._ ” The vampire raises his chin defiantly, but he can’t help but meet the other vampire’s gaze. “ _Come back, Pete._ ”

Pete struggles up from somewhere deep in his consciousness, digging and clawing his way through layers of vampirism to burst into the forefront of his mind. When he does, he nearly collapses. As it is, he staggers a few feet to the side and sinks to his knees against the wall. He looks up at Brendon with eyes wide in horror and disgust. Slowly, Pete brings his fingers up to his chin, touching the slick blood dribbling down it from the corners of his mouth. “What…” he asks, then swallows, feels the thick slide of blood down his throat, nearly gags on it. “Is--is he okay?” Just like the other day, he can’t bring himself to look at his prey.

Brendon doesn’t look away from Pete, but he nods. “I can hear his heartbeat. He’s fine.”

Pete realizes that he can hear it too, a steady _thu-thump thu-thump_ that quiets his guilty thoughts slightly. _If I didn’t hurt him,_ thinks the vampire side of him, _then feeding can’t be all bad, can it?_

_Yes but you almost did hurt him,_ he retorts. _And if it weren’t for Brendon you would have._

_But would you really? You’re full. There was no reason to keep drinking._

_Yeah but--_

“Pete,” Brendon says softly, almost like he can hear his internal conflict. “We need to go before the hunters find their friend.”

“Right,” Pete replies faintly. But it would almost be easier to just stay here and let them find him. Thrust a stake through his heart and watch him crumble into a little pile of flaming dust.

“C’mon,” Brendon urges, no longer as quiet or as patient. Pete’s glad that at least he’s not acting like he needs to be careful around him.

“Alright,” Pete agrees automatically, because he’s supposed to, and because he’s still sort of out of it. “Yeah, alright.”

They sprint home. Pete thinks that he’s going to have to leave soon. He can’t be around Brendon anymore. If Brendon doesn’t leave soon, then Pete will.

Pete thinks of the blood in his stomach, comfortable and warm and necessary to keep him alive. He thinks of the pale man with long black hair hidden in the shadows where his friends will fine him. He thinks of the way he wasn’t able to control the monster inside of him, something dark and dangerous hiding just beneath his skin. Power in his bones. He’s dangerous. The hatred he’s had for himself curls comfortably in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t even have to work for the feeling anymore; it’s become a permanent part of his personality.

_That’s it_ , Pete thinks, _I’m telling Bren I’m leaving. I can’t be around him anymore._

Brendon is in the kitchen, staring absently at the rusted oven. He looks up when Pete enters. “There’s something I have to--” he begins, at the same time Pete says, “I don’t know if I can--” The both stop and look at each other. “You first,” Pete says at last, hugging his sides with his arms. He doesn’t want an argument over his...feeding habits right now, but he supposes it’s better to have everything out in the open before they part ways for good.

Brendon takes a breath. “There’s something--I have to go do something. I’ve been trying to ignore it for a while, but I--I can’t put it off any longer. So. I have to go.”

“Oh,” Pete says, taken aback.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon apologizes, looking for all the world like he means it. “I didn’t want to leave you on your own.”

“No it’s okay. I mean, I was going to leave anyway, if you didn’t first,” Pete admits.

Now it’s Brendon’s turn to say, “Oh.” He lets out a breathy laugh, then his expression grows more serious. “What are you going to do now?”

Pete shrugs, unconcerned. “I dunno. Not join a gang, that for sure. Just try to live on my own, I guess.”

“Good luck with that,” Brendon says earnestly. “You know Pete...you were probably one of my best friends, before all of this. I just wanted...I just wanted to help you and now I’ve gone and fucked everything up. I’ve made it worse.” He sounds regretful, but also like he knows what’s going to happen between them and there’s no point in trying to change it.

“It’s not your fault,” Pete argues quietly. “It’s not, and don’t you fucking dare tell yourself that it is. It’s all because of Beckett. If you’re going to blame someone, blame him.”

Brendon doesn’t look quite convinced, but he nods anyway, a fond smile gracing his lips.

_Fuck, this is harder than I thought it was going to be_. Pete smiles crookedly. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

Brendon’s grin falters, and he shakes his head. “I hope not,” he mutters darkly. “If we ever cross paths again I’ll have to kill you, Pete.”

“Wha--what?” Pete splutters startled when his friend’s face doesn’t break into a teasing grin. “That seems kind of extreme.”

Brendon’s shrug is heavy, and something sad flashes in the backs of his eyes.

Pete swallows, casts around for a change of subject. “What about…” Pete waves a hand vaguely.

“You can leave the house empty if you want,” Brendon replies. “No one’s going to be living here any time soon. Keep it as a safe place to come back to, if you need it.”

Pete nods uncertainly. Brendon won’t meet his gaze, but his face hasn’t become so unfamiliar yet that Pete doesn’t see the hesitation there, the want. Rolling his eyes, Pete steps forward to pull the younger boy into a hug. Brendon remains still for a moment, but soon he’s squeezing back so tightly that Pete’s afraid he’s going to break his ribs. When they break apart, he smiles brokenly at Pete and heads upstairs to collect his things. Most of Pete’s stuff is still shoved into his backpack, and he’s got that slung over one shoulder by the time Brendon makes it back down to the first floor a few seconds later. He meets Pete at the front door, bowler hat pulled low over his eyes.

“You need a fucking haircut,” Pete says as a way of greeting.

“I’m thinking about it,” Brendon replies, reaching up to tug at the hair that’s falling down over his pointed ears and into his eyes. His lips curl up in just enough of a smile to show off his fangs. “Maybe cut the sides back.” The younger vampire looks off down the street, then back towards Pete, and his smile drops. “Bye,” he whispers.

“Bye.” And then he’s gone, too quick to even be a blur.

Pete brushes his own, straightened hair out of his face. He takes a moment to pull the front door shut behind him, although he doesn’t bother to lock it, and then he too is gone, disappeared into the quiet night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments? :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short, but enjoy anyway!

Brendon really, really doesn't want to go back.

He doesn't know what Beckett will do to him when he does, only that it will be...not good. Very not good. He could keep the vampire leader from hurting him if he really wanted to, but he knows compelling his way out of the situation isn't going to solve anything, will probably only make things worse.

But the drag at the base of his spine is an irresistible pull, and Brendon can't help but return. It's not long before he's back. At his full speed, Brendon can travel across most of the city in a few minutes.

The Dandies'...base? Brendon doesn't know what to call it; headquarters and base both sound too cliche, but really there's no other word for it. The Dandies' base, an old, regal apartment building that hasn't felt the footsteps of a human in decades, looms in from of him. Brendon isn't stupid enough not to realize they already know he's there. Hell, Beckett probably knew he was coming back even before he did, with their minds connected like they are. Not for the first or the last time, Brendon is immeasurably glad that Beckett doesn't know Pete's alive.

Spencer meets him at the door, eyes dark and lined with circles. "Brendon," he murmurs, voice rough.

Something uneasy coils in Brendon's stomach. "Spencer," he replies stiffly, gracing his fellow impeccably dressed Dandy with a nod.

Spencer gnaws on his lip, worry evident on his face. "He's not happy," he whispers.

"I figured." Brendon shoots him a wry smile. Brushing past Spencer, Brendon makes his way into the lobby, confidence seeming to ooze from every pore. In reality, if his heart still beat it would be trying to pound its way out of his chest from the nerves. Brendon's glad that it doesn't, that it's unable to give away his true feelings.

As Brendon makes his way across the floor, heels clicking loudly, he can't help but be assaulted with unpleasant memories, the feeling of a blade digging into his skin, Beckett leering over him, of sobbing and begging and frustratingly dry eyes. Brendon closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

Another set of footsteps strolls leisurely across the marble floor. Brendon knows without having to look who it is. He swallows thickly and pushes down his fear.

"Urie." The vampire's voice is smug.

 _Fuck you._ "William." Brendon drags his eyes up to meet Beckett's, whose face twists into a sneer.

"Insolent as ever, I see." Beckett's hand darts out to snatch at Brendon's chin, jerking his head towards him. Brendon is barely able to keep his lips from curling up in disgust.

"The seasons may change," Brendon retorts, "but people don't."

"Except you're not a person." Beckett's voice drops to a dangerous timbre, fingers probing roughly at his throat, squeezing just hard enough to send a flicker of panic racing through Brendon's chest. "You're a Dandy, and you'll change if I say you do."

Brendon notices that the rest of the lobby is now deserted. No one wants to be anywhere near Beckett when he's like this, when they could be in danger of his wrath. Beckett digs his fingernails into Brendon's chin and yanks his head up, forcing him to meet his gaze. The sharp prickling pain is enough to send whispering memories across his skin, and he shivers involuntarily. Beckett's lips form a cruel smile. He knows what he's doing. There's a reason he's been in charge for so long.

"Are you here to stay?" Beckett is cool and calm on the surface, although Brendon sees the anger and control simmering deep in his eyes.

Brendon doesn't say anything, focusing on repressing memories and squashing down his fear. Beckett already knows he's won, but Brendon'll be damned if he lets him know just how much.

"Well?" asks Beckett, turning Brendon's head carelessly to the side and exposing his neck. Brendon can feels Beckett's eyes on his skin, and he swallows against the hysteria rising in his throat. Calm. He has to stay calm.

It's hard though, when he remembers the last time he'd been in the other vampire's presence. When he remembers the feeling of lying naked and exposed on the floor, blood pooling around his shaking limbs; the sharp slide of metal in his skin, slow enough for the wound to close right after the puncture, deep enough to blanket his mind in a haze of pain; the sharp spike of agony in his hip, a twist and a pop and a maniacal laugh before he succumbed to unconsciousness. The torture for the sake of torturing. Beckett hadn't even been that upset about Pete. He was just bored.

"I don't suppose I have much of a choice," chokes Brendon, finally.

The sharp bark of laughter that springs from Beckett surprises Brendon, even more so than the fact that he releases his grip on Brendon's face. Brendon jerks his head away without thinking, barely able to resist the urge to rub at his neck. "No," Beckett sighs contentedly, "I don't suppose you do." He grin is sharp and dangerous. "Welcome back, _Brendon_."

Brendon tries to keep his heart from sinking too far. He's _fucked._

* * *

Brendon eyes the new bruises purpling his jaw in the mirror. Beckett had held him tighter than he'd thought. Gingerly, he brings his fingers up to probe the wounds, formless blobs the distance between fingertips, small red crescents in the shape of fingernails. They should be healed soon enough.

Nearly silent footsteps sound from the bedroom, pausing at the door to the bathroom before continuing in. Brendon closes his eyes. He's really not in the mood for an interrogation.

"You alright?" Spencer asks from behind him, leaning on the doorframe.

"Yes," Brendon lies. In actuality, Spencer's questioning alone makes him feel uneasy. He may be a Dandy and one of the most powerful vampires in the city, but he is only sixteen. "I'm sixteen," he says, senselessly, unable to completely convey what he means.

Spencer seems to understand anyway. "So was I," he murmurs. Brendon glances at his (friend?) fellow Dandy in the mirror. He doesn't look it. He looks old and tough, in part due to the vampirism that hardens your jaw and builds your muscle, but also to the difficulties that come from being a Dandy. Or a vampire at all, especially in Chicago. Brendon pushes down whatever indescribable emotion he was feeling because if Spencer can fucking deal with being a vampire then so can he. Brendon's too proud to let his roommate know how weak he feels on the inside, so he ignores his all-too-human feelings and plasters on the wickedest smile he can manage.

Spencer peers carefully at Brendon. _He's too perceptive for his own damn good_ , Brendon thinks wryly. At least living with Spencer has made it easier for him to lie, even to himself; he has to be an expert if he wants to make it past the other vampires' discerning gaze. "Are you sure you're fine?"

Brendon lets his smile morph into a haughty Dandy sneer. "Oh yes," he replies, already regretting his pun, "I'm just dandy."

* * *

Brendon sits cross-legged on his bed. He hasn't bothered to change out of his ruined clothes, bloodied and torn. Pain pulses in his neck and he closes his eyes and swallows against the knot in his throat. Maybe if he's still enough nothing will hurt. He almost laughs at the false hope.

A familiar soft tread enters the room. Brendon senses rather than feels Spencer's sigh, as it had been completely silent. "You shouldn't antagonize him, you know," Spencer says lightly, crossing the room to sit next to Brendon on the bed. The mattress barely dips under his weight.

Brendon slides his eyes open and gives Spencer a Look.

The other vampire sighs, reaches out to put a hand on Brendon's arm, thinks better of it. "I just want--" his voice goes rough and he changes his mind about speaking. "Are you going to be okay?" he asks instead, eyes roaming over Brendon's body. They flick over his eyebrows and cheekbones, scraped and red, the bloodied lump of his nose, which rights itself with a _snick!_ as he watches, the blood seeping from the backs of his hands, and the tears in his sleeves with a careful gaze. Almost reluctantly they look upward to study his lips, which are split and swollen, as though they had saved that for last.

Brendon closes his eyes again and works up the strength to speak. "You shouldn't--" he rasps, coughing a bit. "You shoudn't--care so much. You should...stop. Spence."

Spencer bristles a bit at that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not...helping...anyone...like this," he wheezes, stubbornly ignoring the sharp slice of pain in his side. He stares into Spencer's eyes, which bravely hold his gaze. "And I'm not--I'm not...worth it."

Spencer looks as though he would beg to differ, but all he does is stand and offer Brendon a hand, which he takes, wincing. "Let's get you cleaned up," he murmurs, but Brendon shakes his head frantically--or as frantically as he can when moving faster than a snail's pace sends painful sparks shooting from every square inch of his body.

"You can't...help me, Spence," he protests, voice becoming easier to use as his throat mends itself. "If he knew you were...helping me..." he doesn't finish his sentence, but he doesn't have to.

Spencer frowns. "He doesn't ever have to find out."

"But...he will."

Spencer doesn't reply. He knows it's true. He also knows there'll be hell to pay when he does, if he isn't aware of it already. "I don't care," he proclaims at last. "You're my friend, Brendon, and I'm going to help you."

Brendon grits his teeth and hates who he's having to become with every fiber of his being. "I don't--want your friendship," he snaps. "I can take care of...of myself. I don't need help." He tries to make his voice as condescending as possible, as if even the thought of needing help from Spencer pains him, as if he doesn't fucking care about anyone or anything, as if saying this isn't tearing his heart down it's hastily-stitched seams. "And I especially don't...need _yours_."

Recoiling as if struck, Spencer retreats to his side of the room. "Fine," he says venomously. "Fucking take of yourself, then." Brendon knows he won't offer his assistance again. He disappears into the bathroom, where the door between them helps block out Spencer's anger. The hurt radiating off of Spencer is almost worse than his own.

Brendon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. First Pete. Now Spencer. His only friends, taken from him. Spencer had been the one to take him in when he was first turned. He wasn't like the others. There was still danger in his hard blue eyes, yes, but it was underneath a layer of understanding and clarity that he hadn't seen with any other Dandy. Spencer had one of the surest senses of self that Brendon had ever seen. He needed to, to be able to hold onto his individuality and personality in the face of the conformity forced on all in the Dandy gang. And Brendon admired him greatly for it. They had become fast friends, Spencer fiercely protective, Brendon fiercely loyal.

Now, Brendon takes a look in the mirror, at his busted face and sunken eyes. It's embarrassing to admit it, but Beckett's won this time. His sharp words and sharper teeth, his heavy fists, have worn him down until he's not willing to fight him anymore. Brendon allows whatever conscious he had left sink down to the back of his mind where it won't bother him anymore. With it, he banishes all thoughts of Pete. If protecting his friend is the last good thing then he can do, well, then he's going to do a damned good job of it.

With his last bit of emotion, Brendon hopes that Pete doesn't make it on his own. He hopes he dies so that Beckett can never find him. He wants his friend to die. The alternative is so much worse. It would be terrible if Beckett found Pete. It would be terrible if anyone found Pete. Truthfully, death would be the most painless option. Brendon just hopes it doesn't come to that.

* * *

Next time Beckett doesn't do anything but smile, razor-sharp. He can see it in Brendon's eyes.

* * *

"Urie." Beckett's voice is cool, but cordial. Over the past few days Brendon's managed to reestablish his position as second-in-command. He knows many of the other Dandies hate him for rising to the top so quickly, but he couldn't give a damn if he tried. He also knows that he deserves it, and could stop anyone who tried to take his position away from him.

"Beckett," Brendon replies in the same chilled tone.

"So glad you could join us," the Dandy leader purrs. "It is a pleasure."

Brendon doesn't reply at first. "What do you need?"

Beckett sighs, seemingly put off. "Urie, where is your sense of fun? We were having a grand time and you come and put a damper on the mood." But he's still smiling evilly. Behind him, a vampire writhes in pain on the floor, blood spurting from gashes in his clothing, the bite marks in his neck.

"What did he do?" Brendon asks, jerking his chin towards the vampire on the floor.

Beckett shrugs, his shoulders a graceful curve. Blood smears his chin. "He wasn't completely sold on Dandy ways. He would not change his mind, either. Even after rather...intense persuasion." He grins again, his white white teeth stained red pink gore. "So we have to get rid of him now. I was wondering if you might like to do it."

Brendon casts a lazy eye over the prone figure. "Why not," he agrees. Beckett smiles, dark and deadly, and watches with obvious glee as Brendon picks his way across the blood-spattered floor. He stops with the tips of his Oxfords inches from the other vampire's side, but he doesn't make any moves closer. Brendon knows what Beckett, and the other vampires in the room, expect him to do. But he's not going to do that. Instead of lunging for the vampire's neck, to tear off his head or drain him of blood, Brendon crouches down and peers into his eyes.

"Smith," he says quietly.

"Bren," Spencer replies, or tries to. It comes out as a hiss of air and the movement of his name on Spencer's bleeding lips. His blue eyes are wide with pleading. For death or for life, it matters not.

Brendon squints slightly, looking closer at his former friend's face, the soft curves of his cheeks. He doesn't say sorry. Why would he, when he's not? " _Die_ ," he murmurs, the surging power of his compel crackling under his skin. Brendon can feel memories pushing at the back of his mind, immense strength building in his chest.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then Spencer goes stiff, a little "Oh" slipping past his lips. And he's still. A second or two passes, and with a grin, Brendon blows a puff of air towards Spencer's body. It dissolves into a sparking cloud of dust. Within moments, there remains not a trace of Spencer's entire existence.

When Brendon stands, he clearly sees the fear on the other Dandies' faces. They don't try to hide it. Languidly, Brendon moves back to Beckett's right side. He pretends not to notice when the Dandy leader flinches away from him. The room is as still as the inside of a closed coffin, the only movement dust motes across moonbeams.

"Well done"--Beckett takes a shaky breath--"Urie."

Brendon gives an empty smile and ignores the weak clench in his chest at the last flash of Spencer's dust. "Your wish is my command, Beckett."

Some confidence seems to crawl back into the Dandy leader's posture at Brendon's words. "Yes, well. Good job," he says lamely. It takes a moment for him to settle back into his usual attitude, but when he does, it's with evident glee that he has such a powerful pawn under his thumb. "Well done."

Brendon grins again and pushes the energy pulsing under his skin back down. "It's my pleasure." And it's the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments? ;)
> 
> I'm going to be out of town for a little over a week, but I'll try to update as soon as I get back.


	9. Chapter 9

**PART II: Kisses On the Necks of Best Friends**

It’s been two and a half years since Pete became a vampire.

He still wears his worn red hoodie and copious amounts of eyeliner, still straightens his hair (although he’s gotten a new flatiron), still mopes around hating himself.  He doesn’t sleep at all anymore, not even the unconscious state vampires slip into to rest.  He’s always tired, always sad.  Pete’s gotten thin, gaunt almost, from his refusal to feed more than absolutely necessary.  If he could get away with it, Pete wouldn’t eat anything, but he’s already tried that and it _really_ didn’t work.  Whenever his body slips into that kind of hunger, the monster takes over and he—well.  Brendon’s not around to pull him away from the necks of unsuspecting victims anymore.

Pete presses his hand against the door of the empty apartment he’s claimed, pushing it open.  He’d had to break the damn thing open to get in the first time, so it doesn’t even latch anymore.  The building itself is old and abandoned, part of a city block that had been evacuated about six months ago when vampire violence in the area grew to be too much.  The previous occupants hadn’t bothered with taking their things, so the apartment was still furnished.  They’d even left food in the fridge, which Pete had promptly thrown out, nauseated by the thought of it.  There were cans in the cabinets, and since they didn’t smell Pete had just left them.  Even if he wasn’t going to eat them it seemed like a waste to throw them out.

Sighing, Pete glides across the floor, slings off his empty backpack, and collapses onto the couch, staring miserably at the TV.  He’d managed to find some rabbit ears—or stolen them, rather; most places aren’t so keen on selling to bloodsuckers and it’s not like Pete had a job anyway—so he can get a few stations, but his choices are limited to the news—depressing information on vampire attacks and police efforts to kill them—and Sesame Street—which only serves to make Pete feel shittier about himself—so he doesn’t watch it much.

Pete settles deeper into the couch and tries to ignore the constant ache in his bones.  He’s just gotten back from his nightly roaming of the city.  The streets were quieter than usual; Sixteen Candles Hunters’ Agency has been recruiting like crazy.  They nab two or three vampires a week, usually the new pups who don’t know how to defend themselves yet.  Pete’s had a run-in or seven with them, but he’s fast and strong even if he is always tired.

Once, there had been a vamp, young and scared and dark-eyed, and Pete couldn’t help but come to his aid.  There was something very Brendon in his look.  Pete had felt bad later, when he’d jerked himself out of the vespertilio state and realized he’d broken someone’s arm, but the kid had been so grateful he’d wrapped Pete in a bone-crushing hug when they had made it to safety.  The pup—he’d told Pete his name was Ryan somewhere in all the nonsense he’d been babbling—had taken a breath to say something, but nearly instantly recoiled.

“You—you’re Dandy,” he had hissed, bristling and tensing, as if ready to fight.

Pete stared at the kid, who although he was several inches taller than Pete didn’t seem intimidating at all, and shook his head.  “Um.  No.  I’m not with them.”

Ryan took a sniff of the air again and narrowed his eyes.  “You smell like William Beckett.”

Pete shrugged wearily, already tired of the conversation.  Exhaustion was dragging at his bones, expanding the cavity in his chest.  “Well I don’t fucking know why.  I haven’t even _talked_ to a Dandy in two years.”

Ryan eyed him warily, taking in his disheveled appearance, the smudged eyeliner, the ratty red hoodie.  No, he definitely wasn’t a Dandy.  “And you’re not Clandestine,” Ryan not-quite-asked, clearly confused.

“Obviously,” Pete huffed.

“So—you—?”

“Am on my own.”

Now it was Ryan’s turn to stare.  “Really?”

“Yes,” Pete sighed, then looked back over his shoulder to double check that they weren’t being followed.  He didn’t hear anything.

“But,” said Ryan, and then stopped.

“But nothing,” Pete retorted.  “I don’t have to fucking join a gang if I don’t want to.”

Pete expected Ryan to snap back, but he just watched him with a calculating gaze that was rather unsettling.  “Okay,” he said at last, finally relaxing.  “But why did you save me?  You don’t have Clandestine loyalties, and if it wasn’t for you I’d be dust by now for sure.”

Pete didn’t feel like telling the pup that it was because he’d reminded him of someone who wasn’t even his friend anymore.  “I dunno,” he said instead.  “It felt right.”  It wasn’t exactly a lie.

If possible, Ryan’s expression grew even shrewder.  “Oh,” he replied, soft.

Pete pulled at the strings on the hood of his sweatshirt.  “We done here?” he asked gruffly.

“I guess,” Ryan said.

Pete nodded, and then closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness.  He reached out a hand towards a wall to steady himself, hoping he appeared more nonchalant than he felt.  When he opened his eyes, Ryan was studying him curiously.  Pete jutted his chin out, daring the pup to say something.  He didn’t.  Just nodded and turned as if to go.  At the last moment, he hesitated.  “Nice jacket.”  Then he was gone.  Pete slumped against the wall, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.  He didn’t even bother trying to understand what the pup meant by that.

He did think it was interesting, however, when a few weeks later he saw several Clandestine vampires wearing red hoodies.

Now, Pete burrows himself deeper into his couch and tries not to think about the dissatisfied mutterings of his stomach.  He’s just returned from an unsuccessful hunt, unwilling to rip the life force out of another innocent human, and the sky grows lighter with the impending dawn.  Pete’s gotten drinking only enough blood to keep him going down to a science.  Plus, he doesn’t use any of the fear tactics employed by other vampires in the city.  Compelling, Pete has found, can be useful in making prey more compliable.  Feeding becomes easier, not the messy assault the vampire gangs seem to prefer.

Pete sneaks a glance out the window.  The sky is gray-purple, the edges of clouds just beginning to flare orange.  Already his skin feels tight and hot, uncomfortable and sunburnt.  He should really close the window, drawn down the shades and pull the blackout curtains tight against the sun.  Pete doesn’t get up.

He’s debated doing this before, just sitting and watch the sun creep across the floor until it burns holes in his skin, but he’s never gone through with it.  He doesn’t now.  Just as the tips of his fingers start to steam, Pete rises and yanks the cord for the blinds; they come rattling down.  He slides the curtains closed.

The living room is dark, but that doesn’t bother Pete.  He crosses the room to sit at the kitchen table and pulls the newspaper he’d deposited there earlier close.  Every day Pete reads the entire paper, front to back.  It’s a good way to burn a few hours.  The comics get saved for last, to help take his mind off the depressing stories he’s just read.

Running his hand across the front page, Pete inhales deeply.  He’s grown to enjoy the smell of newspaper.

Pete spends maybe half an hour reading the front page articles, flipping through pages to B7 or C2 or wherever to finish reading them when they cut off.  When he turns to page two, he sighs.  The headline at the top reads:  SCHA UNDER NEW LEADERSHIP, CHANGES TO BE MADE IN HUNTING BUSINESS.  Is this all anyone in this damn city knows how to report on?  The picture next to the title is in color, of a young man standing proudly next to the Sixteen Candles office.  Pete pauses and peers closer at him.  He swears he recognizes the kid.  He’s leaner and tougher, with even longer hair and more sideburns than the last time he saw him, but there’s still a worn-out trucker cap tilted back on his head, a sassy tilt to his hips.  Pete’s eyes flick towards the caption underneath the picture.  “ _Patrick Stumph, newly instated management of SCHA, stands outside the downtown office._ ”  Yeah, it’s him.

Interested, Pete starts to read the article.

 

 

 

> _Sixteen Candle Hunters Agency has been a constant presence in the Chicago for three years now and is known as the leading vampire-hunting agency in the city._
> 
> _Recently, manager Grayson Jenkins has stepped down from his position, citing health issues.  “I just had one too many run-ins with the vamps,” Jenkins, 44, said, indicating a recently broken arm._
> 
> _Jenkins has handed over the business to young Patrick Stumph, who has been working for the agency since he was 16 years old.  “I’m very excited for this,” said Stumph, 19.  “I think I can really make a difference in the city.  I want to try out some new methods, and I think we can finally truly start to get this vampire situation under control._
> 
> _When asked what his first move will be, Stumph admits that he plans to take it slow at first.  “I want to get into the groove of running things, and obviously I’ll still keep many of the things that worked before the same, but I think it’ll be good to shake things up a bit.”_
> 
> _Since SCHA’s creation, vampire…_

Pete scans the rest of the article.  More bullshit about how vampire crime has gone down in the city.  He knows it’s just that the gangs are finally being more discreet about their feeding habits.  They’re even starting to infiltrate night clubs, leaving scars that fade to look like hickies.  They’ve only been able to make it past security, Pete knows, because of Brendon.  His compel is powerful enough to convince even the most strong-willed human to let vampires in without a fight, and he’s got range like no motherfucker knows.  He’s able to control people from a block away.  Pete’s seen it happen, heard the screams, watched Brendon appear at the end of the street and slip into the club to do damage control.

It’s not worth it to think about that though, the hard lines of Brendon’s body, or the way all the softness has been leeched out of him, or his new haircut that makes him look less like a confused teenager and more like someone who knows how to be dangerous.

With difficulty, Pete pulls his attention away from the article.  He tries to read the rest of the paper, but his mind keeps wandering back to that picture of Patrick.  Pete doesn’t think they’ve said two words to each other, but he can’t help wonder how he’s doing.

After Pete’s struggled through the rest of the newspaper, he takes a sharpie to the pages, messily scribbling out whatever thoughts he has over them.  They’re phrases, single words, random doodles of bats with hearts.  One of them gets completely filled with the words _i’m a loose bolt_ over and over and over in tiny cramped handwriting.  He flips the page over and scrawls _of a complete machine_ on the back, large and so that the loops of letters skid off the paper and onto the table in places.  When he’s done he painstakingly folds each page into a perfect paper airplane, then places them gently in his backpack, which he retrieves from the floor.

When that’s done, Pete settles back to wait through the rest of the day.  He doesn’t have anything else to do, so listening to the words in his head swirl through his head while he stares at the ceiling is all that fills his soul-suckingly boring days.

It’s not even noon yet.

* * *

As soon as the sun goes down, Pete’s out the door, backpack back on.  It might even be a little too soon, because he can feel the skin on the back of his neck blistering, but he just pulls up his hood and shoves his hands into his pockets until the discomfort passes.

Pete knows it’s stupid.  He knows it’s one of the best ways to get himself killed.  He knows that.  But he heads over to the SCHA downtown office anyway.  He waits on top of the roof and slides his backpack off, holding one of the straps loosely in his hand.  The edge of the roof is an inch behind the tips of his sneakers, and he wiggles his toes over the ledge.  He’s about two stories up.

Below him, Pete watches as a two humans enter the building, the door jangling as they pull it open.  For a moment a bright beam of light stabs into the growing dark, but it dims again once they enter.  Neither of them was Patrick.

Pete figures that Patrick has been here since before Pete could be, when the sun was still bright enough to incinerate him.  He shrugs to himself before pulling out one of the paper airplanes and launching it into the warm air.  He’s gotten good at this, and the plane flies straight and far, looping through the air to land somewhere in the night.

Usually Pete spends the majority of his night climbing over the Chicago cityscape, flinging airplanes from the tops of various buildings just to give himself something to do, but tonight he changes his mind.  Against his better judgement, he stays atop the SCHA building, flinging out another plane every few minutes.  He’s gotten through about half of his bag when a few figures step out of the building.

“Fuck,” Pete hisses, trying to snatch back the airplane he’s just thrown.  It’s too late; it spirals messily down through the air from Pete’s botched throw and—

Hits one of the people down below in the back of the head.  “Fuck,” Pete exclaims, louder now.  The person he hit spins around, searched for the culprit.  Pete ducks down and steps back away from the edge of the building, but apparently, it wasn’t quick enough.  “There’s someone up there!” he hears one of the people down below shout.

“God—dammit,” Pete swears, racing across the roof to the back of the building, slinging his backpack over his shoulders as he goes.

Pete jumps over the side of the roof, swinging down the fire escape, and lands with an unsteady _thud_ on the concrete.  Taking a moment to listen and see which way the footsteps are coming from, Pete sprints off.  Or at least moves away as quickly as he can.  He’s really regretting not drinking last night.  Weak and shaky as he is, he might actually not make it out of this one.

Footsteps, up ahead.  Pete skids to a stop, smashing roughly into the wall.  He shakes the dizziness out of his head and tries to sink into the shadows pooling around him.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah, they must still be in the alley.”

Pete closes his eyes to concentrate on his hearing.  There are obvious voices coming from his left, probably hoping to make him think they’re the only problem, but there is a soft tread sounding from his right.  They’re going to be a thousand times more dangerous, the trap they hope to lead him into.

Pete surges left, flashing out of the shadows and barreling straight into one of the two hunters.

“Holy _fuck_!” the other one shouts, jerking herself back out of the way.

“Sorry, so sorry,” Pete gasps, detangling himself from the hunter.  He scrambles to his feet and races down the alley, hoping that he’s startled them enough that he can gain the head start he needs to get away from them.  At this point Pete’s not running much faster than a human, if that.

No such luck.

Footsteps clatter after him.  Pete pushes himself onward, discovering that for all his thoughts of death and self-hatred, he really does not want to die.

The flickers at the edges of his vision start soon after that, and Pete has to concentrate on not allowing the vampire to take over, to drag him down into the vespertilio state and not let go until all three of the humans chasing him are dead.  He ducks out of the alley, racing across the street and trying to get to the other side, where he can hide, before the hunters can catch up to him.

He’s almost made it across when the gunshots ring out, two cracks of thunder.  The first shatters brick inches from Pete’s head, and he jerks away from it—probably what prevents the second bullet from lodging in Pete’s chest.  Instead, it spears his upper arm, digging in deep and staying there.  Pete gasps in pain, legs tangling up under him, and he falls, hard, chin digging into the pavement, arms crumpled awkwardly beneath him.

“Got him!” a masculine voice shouts from across the street.

Pete groans and struggles to get up, his feet refusing to gain traction on the ground.  He topples over again.  Two sets of footsteps slow as they near him—the third person must have gone back for whatever reason.

“He’s a mess,” one of them murmurs.  Pete turns his head to look at them.  Through his fuzzy vision, he can see that the man that spoke has long wavy hair.

“He’s barely even bleeding,” the second one, who has a trucker hat on, adds.

Pete grunts and struggles to sit up, struggles to get his vision going straight again, struggles to do anything other than lay there and wait for them to kill him.

“You got him or do you want me to do it?” Wavy Hair asks.

Trucker Hat sighs.  “I got him.”  He steps forward, pulling a stake out from his jacket.

“No,” Pete gurgles, scraping his fingertips and toes on the ground in an effort to get away.  He can feel the bullet crawling through his arm as his body rejects the intrusion, but he’s not going to be able to heal fully, not without blood.  And definitely not if he’s dead.  “No.”  Trucker Hat keeps coming for him.

Fucking finally Pete gets his eyes to adjust, and he meets Trucker Hat’s dead on.  “ _Stop_ ,” he pleads, and then his stomach does a funny little flip-flop because _holy shit_ that’s Patrick Stumph.  He’d recognize those eyes anywhere, that mess of blonde-red hair, even if he hasn’t seen it in person in over two years.

Patrick barely even pauses.  “Your pathetic tricks won’t work on me, leech,” he sneers, and even if he is about to kill him, Pete can still appreciate the beauty that is Patrick Stumph’s mouth.

“ _Please_ ,” Pete tries again, because there’s no other way he can get out of this.  His experience has shown him that compelling only gets stronger if you’re desperate—or telling the truth.  “ _Please don’t kill me.  I don’t want to hurt you_.”

And some of the sincerity in his voice must finally start to seep into Patrick, because he stills, right hand raised slightly and clutching the stake.  But then he frowns and shakes his head.

“ _Please_ ,” Pete pleads, voice cracking along with his shaky hold over his compel.  “Just because I don’t want to hurt doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Filthy lying bloodsucker,” Patrick hisses, and tenses his muscles as if to strike.

Pete lets his eyes slide over to black.

With a last surge of energy, Pete grabs for Patrick’s arm.  He can hear Wavy Hair shouting.  Pete’s body makes an aborted motion towards Patrick’s neck, but he manages to pull himself away at the last moment, ripping the stake from his hands and flinging it down the street instead.  Pete knows running on ground level isn’t going to keep him safe, so he pushes Patrick into Wavy Hair, who just manages to catch him.  He jumps up, as high as he can, and latches his fingers into miniscule cracks in the wall, heaving himself up and away from the two humans down below.  Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to go back and finish them off, to drain them dry until he’s full and sated.  Luckily, most of the buildings around this area are only two stories, so he’s off and running across rooftops again within moments.

Pete doesn’t let himself stop running until he trips again, leaping from one rooftop to the other.  The toe of his foot catches on a ledge and he nearly doesn’t make the jump, body slamming into the other building.  He hears a rib crack, and struggles for purchase with his bloodied fingertips.

It’s no use; Pete can’t keep ahold of the roof, and he slides and scrapes his way down to the ground, where he lands in a muddled heap, completely still.

Broken bones and torn skin slowly start to mend themselves.  Pete’s hardly bleeding, even with his multiple wounds.  He needs to eat.  However, all he can do is lie there, completely still, feeling waves of pain pulse through him.

It’s a few minutes before Pete becomes lucid enough to realize where he is.  The very ground beneath him is vibrating with the booming of bass, and there’s a quiet chatter coming from the front of the building.  He’s outside of a nightclub.  Suddenly, the scent of warm blood assaults Pete’s nose, and his eyes flick up to the entrance of the alleyway.

There’s a girl standing there, around the age Pete was when he was turned, staring uncertainly into the dark.  “Hello?” she calls, voice shaky.  She knows she should not be here, should go inside where it’s safe, but for some reason there she stands, young and fresh and sweet-looking.  Pete rustles to life, joints cracking, pulling himself towards her.  Something in the back of his mind is screaming at him to stop, but at this point, he can’t.  If she doesn’t leave _now_ he’s not going to be able to hold himself back.

She must be able to see him creeping towards her on the ground now, because she takes a startled step back, drawing in a breath.  Pete stops her with one look and a whispered “ _You want to stay there_ ” and she stills.  Honestly,  she’s not exactly what Pete would have preferred; she may be pretty, dressed fashionably and with wavy brown hair, but she’s so… _feminine_.  Not really his taste.  She’ll do for now, though.

Trembling, the brunette takes an uncertain step back; Pete’s tenuous hold on her is breaking.  Pete whines in frustration.

And then there are more vampires, dressed in ratty old clothing, pushing the girl farther into the alley.  There must be ten of them, and Pete hardly has time to wonder where they all came from before he’s being yanked up by his backpack, the straps digging painfully into his shoulders.  One of the vampires shoves his face close to Pete’s, breath the sickly sweet scent of blood.  “Look who I found, boys,” he croons, “It’s the hoodie guy.”  At Pete’s confused look he laughs.  “You don’t know the reputation you got, do ya.  You can’t even fucking eat right, you sorry excuse for a vampire.  No wonder neither gang would take you in.”  He gives a wicked grin and throws Pete into the mass of his friends.

The vampire, who Pete can now see are Clandestine, push and pull Pete towards the girl, who is whimpering; she knows what’s coming.

“Hungry?” one of them sneers, shoving the brunette forwards.

Pete grits his teeth and turns his head away, but someone pulls at his hair and yanks his face back towards the girl.  She’s crying now, big wet tears that glisten on her fair skin.

“Oh, come on!” another urges.  “Kiss her, run your lips over that pretty neck of hers.  You know you want to.”  He does.  He does _so_ badly.

“Take a drink.”

“Kiss her!”

“You can’t hold out forever, you bastard.  We know you’re hungry.”

“Stop trying to be ‘noble’ or whatever the hell you’re doing and just drink already.”

Pete doesn’t know why the fuck they’re doing this.  Maybe just to see if they can get a reaction out of him.  It doesn’t matter.  Them wanting this from him just makes him resist more.  But she smells…so…good…

“Kiss her!”

“Taste that sweet blood pumping through those veins.”

“ _Kiss her!_ ”

“Take the bite, it’s right there for you, take the bite!”

“ _Kiss her!_ ”

Pete can’t take it anymore, snapping his teeth towards her neck, just barely managing to pull back in time.  Someone bumps into him from behind, wraps their arm around him, shoves him forward.  The blood pumping quick and terrified in the girl’s neck is practically calling to Pete, and he strains forward in an attempt to reach it.  _No,_ he thinks, _no._

“ _KISS HER!_ ”

He ducks down to dig his fangs into the arm around his neck.

The Clandestine yells and pulls back, swearing.  In the following confusion, Pete manages to incapacitate two other vampires.  He turns to the girl, standing frozen with fear.  “Run!” he rasps.  “Get the fuck out of here!”  She inhales sharply and takes off for the nightclub entrance, looking back one.

Someone jumps on Pete’s back, and he staggers out of the alleyway, fending off the teeth that scrape at his neck.  He throws the vampire off and onto a nearby parked car, but he’s far too outnumbered.  The ones he’s fought with have already pulled themselves to their feet.  He’s surrounded.

Pete swings, hitting one in the eye.  Someone pulls out of knife, and Pete jumps backwards, far out of the way of the glinting blade.

He grabs another Clandestine by the neck, lifting him off the ground in one last spurt of energy and throwing his fist into his abdomen.  He flies off and hits a light pole, where he slumps to the ground, groaning.

And yet still there’s another, coming at Pete with sharp nails and an ugly snarl on her otherwise pretty face.  He knows he can’t keep going.  He was exhausted to begin with.

The girl grabs him by his hoodie, and Pete is forcefully reminded of that day two and a half years ago when Brendon did the same thing.  “Piece of shit,” the vampire hisses, baring her teeth.  “You no-good moth—” her words are choked off, and Pete falls to the ground when her body collapses into dust.

Within seconds, three more vampires are slain, wooden stakes clattering loudly to the ground in their place.  Three vampires hunters stand a ways off, tense and ready for a fight.  They don’t get one.  The rest of the Clandestines flee without a second glance towards their fallen brethren.  Only Pete and piles of dust that quickly go up in flame remain.

For a moment, Pete stares stupidly at the hunters—it’s the same two as before, Patrick and Wavy Hair, joined by a girl who looks like she could kick both their asses alongside Pete’s.  Then he jerks into action, sprinting back down the alleyway.

He doesn’t make it far before his legs give out under him, and Pete knows this is the end.  A slow pair of footsteps follows him, and Pete’s lost too much blood and has gone too long without eating to make it through alive.  Even if the hunter didn’t finish him off, after all the shit Pete’s been through tonight he’d be dust before sunrise.  His fingertips already feel fragile and papery.

Close call after close call—that’s all Pete night has been so far.  His luck has run out.  Disgust rears it’s ugly head, tells Pete cruelly that he deserves this, that he deserves to die.  A moan escapes the confines of Pete’s lips before he can stop it, and his fist gives an involuntary clench—his body trying to escape even as his mind knows that it’s pointless.

The hunter’s steps near Pete, slowing as they approach.  They must know Pete’s in no state to fight back.  When they stop completely, Pete thinks _this is it_.  He waits for the swoosh of air as the stake stabs towards his heart.

It doesn’t come.

Confused, Pete opens his eyes and twists his head so that he can look at the hunter.  It takes a moment, sharp pain rippling down his spine, but Pete manages to shift enough to look up and meet his would-be assailant’s eyes.  Patrick Stumph stares steadily back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy early Fourth of July, everyone!
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes or general awkwardness. They're all mine and I rushed to get this posted before my family came over. Enjoy! :)

Patrick watches as the same vampire from earlier, the one with the red hoodie, limps off into the shadows. Andy makes as if to go after him, but Patrick holds him back with a light touch on his arm. At his fellow hunter’s curious stare, Patrick shakes his head. “I got it.” Andy shrugs and jerks his head towards Vienna, who peels off after him to check on the nightclub. With so many vampires nearby it’ll be a miracle if none of them have made it inside yet.

Patrick doesn’t bother quickening his pace to a run in his pursuit of Red Hoodie. He knows his steady pace will be enough to catch him. As Patrick listens, he hears the vampire collapse to the ground with a muffled _hmph!_ He sighs and tightens his grip on his stake, adjusting the pack slung over his shoulder to a more comfortable and out-of-the-way position.

His feet seem to slow of their own accord as he nears the vampire, laying prone on the ground, mangled and sorry-looking. He lets out a pitiful moan, hand jerking away in a vain attempt at escape. Patrick just watches him for a while, until he’s been standing there for so long that the vamp starts to twist around to look at him. There are scratches along his chin, shallow and angry-looking. They should have healed already. Patrick meets his eyes, whiskey-colored and fear-filled, soaked with the resignation that he’s going to die. Patrick knows he should kill him; that _is_ what he’s spent the last four years of his life training to do, after all. Kill vampires.

But—he can’t. There’s something about this one. Patrick had seen what he did, the way he held back from tearing into that girl’s neck. He told her to run. That doesn’t go along with everything else Patrick has ever seen from vampires.

Red Hoodie swallows visibly, then closes his eyes. Patrick watches his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing. “If…you’re going to kill me just—get it over with.” His voice is the rough slide of concrete under a crashing bike.

Patrick can feel the expression on his face become more conflicted, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment. It’s unnerving, the way the vampire doesn’t breathe—he looks dead already.

“Were you telling the truth?” Patrick asks. He has no idea where that question came from.

At his words, the vampire’s eyes snap open, and they fixate themselves on Patrick’s mouth. Again, the muscles in his neck work overtime trying to get words out. “Was I—the truth?”

“When—when you said you didn’t want to hurt me.” Patrick doesn’t know why he cares so much about his answer. He should just kill him now. A quick thrust through the heart—he’ll be dead in moments.

The vampire’s eyes slide closed; it seems difficult for him to open them again. This time he isn’t able to form a coherent sentence, just a mumbled grunt and the slightest movement of his head that Patrick knows is a yes. He doesn’t know what to do with this information. On the one hand, there’s no way in hell the bloodsucker is compelling him, he’s far too weak for that, and he has no reason to lie. He already thinks Patrick is going to kill him. On the other hand…Patrick is the head of a renowned vampire hunting agency. He has a reputation and standards to uphold. On top of that, how does Patrick know, even if this vamp didn’t want to hurt him earlier, that he won’t change his ways? That if he doesn’t kill him right now, he won’t go out tomorrow night and eat three people?

But…what those Clandestine vampires had said. That he was known for being so _un_ vampireish they were willing to beat him up over it. Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever felt so conflicted in his whole life.

Something _plings_ to the dirty ground and rolls to bump against the toe of Patrick’s boot. He takes a surprised step back and bends down to look. It’s a bullet, rusty red with old blood. His bullet. That he shot. At the vampire. The vampire who’s slowly and painfully dying in front of him. Killing him quickly would almost be kinder at this point.

Patrick squeezes the bullet between his fingertips until it stings, tilting his head back to try to catch a glimpse of stars. “Oh fuck,” he mutters, and then kneels next to the vamp, whose glassy eyes follow his movements. Patrick pulls the satchel off his back and rummages through it, breath tight in his chest. _Why_ the fuck is he doing this again? Patrick frowns when his eyes don’t land on the item he’s looking for, and he searches through the neatly packed items again, heart in his throat. He knows there’s no use: if he hasn’t found it already then he’s not going to. To his surprise, Patrick finds that his hands are shaking as he looks back towards the vampire—the vampire who’s name he doesn’t even know. He’s never cared about their names before. The vamp’s eyes have dulled from their shininess of a few minutes ago, and now they glimmer dully, dried out and only half-seeing. “I don’t have any blood,” Patrick chokes. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t understand the frustration wound tight beneath his sternum.

The vampire doesn’t move except for the tired sweep of his eyes over Patrick’s body. He looks so helpless and—unbelievably sad. Patrick feels a well of—of something in his chest. He reaches out a hand to lay it on the vampire’s hoodie-clad arm. Even in his near-death state he still has the energy to shiver at his touch. His eyes slide shut and stay that way.

Patrick bites his lip, staring intently at the pale skin of the inside of his wrist, scarred from previous…encounters with vampires. He’s not going to do that if he can help it, and there’s no way he’s letting this vamp have at his neck. But…

Another idea forming slowly in his mind, Patrick pulls back from the vampire, tearing into his bag with renewed energy. His deft fingers pluck out an IV, usually hooked to a bag of blood or medicine for injured hunters. This time, however, the tube isn’t going to be used to introduce something into Patrick’s bloodstream, but rather to extract it. Pulling his arm from his jacket sleeve, Patrick sneaks another glance at the vamp to make sure he hasn’t disintegrated yet. Trying to still his trembling hands, Patrick swabs his arm with disinfectant and slides a clean needle into the veins on the inside of his elbow, wincing at the sharp prick of pain. The whole time there’s an insistent voice in the back of his head screaming that this is the fucking worst idea that he’s ever fucking had, but he resolutely ignores it, instead pressing the end of the tube into the vampire’s mouth.

Patrick swears when the vampire doesn’t move or react to the blood that even Patrick can smell at this point. Desperation beats hollowly at his temples, an ache that he tries to ignore. It’s not—it’s not a big deal if this vampire doesn’t make it. In fact, it’ll be better if he doesn’t. One less bloodsucker for SCHA to worry about.

Plopping back on his ass, Patrick pulls up his knees and puts his head in the crook of his elbow, shivering. The night isn’t cold, but he feels tired and worn out, like he’s just run a marathon. His heart beats erratically, a condemnation of his inability to save anything—anyone. This is just like Winona all over again. He’d promised himself that after—after her, he’d do everything his power to save people. That determination is probably why he’s in charge of hunting agency at nineteen years old but—no. He doesn’t need to think about that right now.

Patrick rubs at the bridge of his nose, glasses riding up and pressing into his forehead. He feels numb, tingly. Well, actually, just his left arm feels like—

His eyes shoot open and he watches with relief so immense he didn’t think it was possible as the vampire sucks greedily on the other end of the IV. He’s chewing on the plastic, sinking in his fangs to pump blood into his body. Patrick’s blood. It’s almost wonderful to watch as the flaky gray quality to his skin fades and he returns to the normal paleness of vampires, but instinctual fear settles into Patrick’s bones and he grunts in discomfort. Instantly the vampire stops, his pupils contracting to a normal size, and watches Patrick curiously. Blood dribbles down his chin, and he sits up and swipes ineffectively at it with his hand, licking his skin clean.

Still nervous, Patrick pulls the needle from his arm and presses a bandage to the spot of dark blood that wells up. The vampire follows his movements with greedy eyes, jaw clenched. Patrick is watching him close enough to notice the way he squeezes his eyes shut when his pupils threaten to widen over his whole eyes again.

“So,” Patrick begins. The vampire’s brown eyes shoot open and fix themselves intently on Patrick’s. Their gaze is intense. “I guess…I mean. You’re not like the others.”

“No,” the vampire agrees, his words a mere rasp. His clears his throat, swallowing a few times to prep his voice. “I am not.”

Patrick doesn’t dare take his eyes off of him. He still doesn’t completely trust him—he _is_ a vampire, after all. The vampire—well. “What’s your name?” Patrick blurts, unable to help himself. “Well, I mean, I’m—”

“Patrick,” he interrupts, then looks regretful at Patrick’s worried expression. “No I—I read it in the newspaper. And. We’ve met before.”

“What?”

The vampire shakes his head. “You probably don’t…remember. It was almost three years ago. You saved me from, from Beckett, the bastard. Or at least tried to.” His smile is bitter. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“I—no. I think,” Patrick stutters, vague memories of being caught under compel pulling at his brain. “That was back when Urie had just been turned, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the vampire whispers. “Before Brendon because some kind of—monster.”

Patrick desperately wants to ask more—like how the fuck this vamp is on first name terms with the most powerful vampire in Chicago—but he forces himself to hold back, asking instead what he really needs to. “So. I didn’t kill you.”

“Yes,” the vampire says, wary.

“And I know that you, like, don’t—you don’t feed like the others.

“No…”

“Just—why?”

The vampire looks taken aback at that. “I—it’s not. It’s not something I want to do.” He doesn’t elaborate, and fine. He doesn’t have to. That’s not what Patrick needs from him anyway.

Patrick takes a steadying breath. “I have—I have a favor to ask of you.”

The vampire shrugs, settling back into a more comfortable position—or at least as comfortable as possible on the dirty and cracked cement beneath him. “Not like I have much of a choice,” he laughs bitterly.

_You don’t technically have to accept,_ Patrick thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. If this is what it takes to get the vamp on his side then so be it. “What do you think about working for me?”

“For the agency?” he asks, eyes narrowed like he can’t possibly believe Patrick is being serious. Patrick doesn’t blame him; he wouldn’t either.

“Well, it would really just be for me. Sixteen Candles wouldn’t know about it.”

“What do you want from me?” His voice is guarded, but it’s not a no. It’s definitely not a no. “And—why do you want it?”

“I need you to update me on vampire activity in the city, tell me all you know about feeding patters and whereabouts, so the agency can come in and eradicate them. You’d be safe from me, of course, and I would never purposefully lead us to you, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll be protected from the rest of the agency.” Patrick rattles it off as if he’s held dozens of these interviews, when in reality he’s just making it up on the fly.

“You didn’t answer my second question,” the vampire reminds him softly.

“Your second—?”

“Why do you want _me_ , as opposed to someone else?”

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Patrick laughs nervously. “And…you’re different.” It definitely has nothing to do with the flat-ironed bangs sweeping down into his wide brown eyes or the shapely curve of his jaw or the shadow of stubble along his chin or—

The vampire laughs, more of a croak than anything. “I guess I am.”

Patrick swallows and pushes down anything not related to the more practical reasons he wants the vamp’s help because—no. He’s not like that. Patrick smiles weakly, but another thought wipes his face clean again. “I was supposed to kill you.”

The vampire recoils, tensing as if to flee, and Patrick immediately regrets his words. “No—I. I need an excuse why you’re going to be lurking around the city when I was supposed to kill you easily.”

The vampire’s gaze is still uneasy. It’s Patrick’s turn to flinch away when he reaches out to his face. He pauses, fingers inches away from Patrick’s nose. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, and plucks his glasses from his face. “You’ll just have to tell your friends,” he continues, placing his hands on either side of the frames, “that I was faking weakness and overpowered you, breaking your glasses in the process.” He looks up, as if asking for permission. When Patrick doesn’t say no, he snaps them in half, an effortless twist of his wrist. He reaches out for Patrick’s hand and places his mangled eyewear in it, gently curling his fingers over the now-useless object.

Patrick zeros in on the soft brush of their fingertips, uneasy with having a vampire he doesn’t yet fully trust so close to him. “I don’t know,” he breathes. “I’m still not sure they’ll believe me.”

The vampire bites his lip, and Patrick has to look away. “I mean, I could—I could like bite your wrist. Numb you with venom a bit, so you’d have bite marks and side effects.”

Patrick’s throat clenches, panicked. “There’s not a fucking way in hell you’re doing that,” he spits, heart pounding with sudden fear.

The vampire snatches back his hands and holds them up in a surrendering gesture. “I just thought I would suggest it,” he mutters.

Staying tense and uncomfortable, Patrick shoves his supplies back in his pack to give his hands something to do. He places his broken glasses in the pocket of his jeans and shrugs his jacket back on all the way.

“Hey.” Patrick glances up, then back down. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not—scared,” Patrick grits.

“Dude, I can hear your heartbeat.”

A blush tints Patrick’s cheeks and he looks away, not saying anything.

The vampire shifts. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick replies stiffly, rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of his other. But the vampire still looks cowed, a deep glimmer of frustration in his eyes. He bites his lip, and the expression on his face cannot be mistaken as anything but what it is: regret and disgust at himself.

There’s an internal battle struggling through Patrick’s thoughts—to let him bite or to not let him bite. On the one hand, he’s known this vampire for all of ten minutes, if that. Giving him direct access to his blood—that’s something he really, _really_ does not want to do. He’s not sure if he could hand over his wrist if he wanted to.

On the other hand…he does bring up a good point. It would be more believable to Andy and Vienna—not to mention the rest of the fucking agency—if he came back with bite marks and vampire venom in his system. It would be too fishy otherwise.

Patrick wavers between his two options, torn. There’s something in him screaming to trust the vampire, but something just as loud is yelling at him to get as far away as he fucking can. Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat somewhere between a grunt and a whine. God damn it.

“It’s fine,” Patrick repeats at last, sighing. “Just—don’t do anything like that again. I don’t exactly have the best…relationship with vampires.”

“No one does,” the vamp replies, still sulking.

“Not like me,” Patrick replies, soft. He puts something else in his expression that he really hopes the vamp understands and—yeah. His face falls and he curls in upon himself even more. “I’m sorry,” he says again, the words a mere whisper floating out on his breath.

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

After a moment, the vampire crinkles his nose. “I should—I should really get going.” He pulls his backpack close. “Still got paper airplanes to toss out all over the fucking city.” He smiles weakly.

Something catches in the back of Patrick’s throat. “You—you’re the one that throws those?”

The vampire gives him a curious look. “Yeah. Why?”

Patrick thinks back on the stacks of carefully unfolded pages of written-on newspaper back in his apartment, the time he’s spent deciphering the messy handwriting and sorting the random bits of poetry into larger pieces that make sense and slide into the lines of melody winding through his head. He flushes. “No reason.”

The look on the vampire’s face cannot physically be more skeptical, but he just nods and rises slowly to his feet. After a split-second hesitation that Patrick only _just_ notices, he holds out his hand. Patrick hesitates a bit longer, eventually slowly placing his hand in the vamp’s, and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. As soon as he can do it without appearing rude Patrick takes his hand back, unnerved by the clammy coldness of the vampire’s grasp.

“How will I get in contact with you?” Patrick asks.

“Well you seem to know all about my paper airplanes,” the vamp grins, “and I know where your base is, so why don’t we just keep doing that.”

“But that doesn’t explain how _I’m_ going to talk to _you_.”

The vamp shrugs. “Just leave your own notes on the roof or something.”

“That doesn’t seem very effective or efficient,” Patrick grumbles.

The vamp laughs, and Patrick starts at the joyous sound, surprised that the man before him could produce it. It’s really a very nice laugh. “Well if you have any better ideas I’m all ears,” he jokes, grinning for the first time since Patrick has met him. He should really smile more often. Sad is not a good look on him. He keeps his lips tightly pressed together, concealing his fangs.

Patrick ducks his head. “No,” he mumbles, slightly freaked out again. He’d gotten a glimpse of the sharp points of his ears beneath his hair.

The vampire smiles again, heavier and weighed down this time. “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Rick.”

“…Rick?”

“Sorry, I know you’re not one for nicknames.”

“No I—it’s fine. My family calls me that sometimes. I just don’t like—”

“Pat,” the vamp finishes for him.

_How the fuck…_

“Sorry.” He apologizes a lot, Patrick notices. He’s not going to complain though. It makes him seem like less of a threat, and he’d rather not be scared out of his wits around this guy. “I told you…we’ve met before.”

Patrick scrunches up his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“It’s alright,” the vampire interrupts, shrugging. “I didn’t expect you to.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Patrick looks down and away. “I should get going. My friends will wonder where I am.”

The vampire nods. “Bye Patrick.” He turns to go.

“Bye—wait!” The vampire stops and looks back over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

The vampire smiles again, and this time Patrick can see his elongated canines, glinting darkly dangerous in the deep shadows of the alley. There’s something alluring about this vampire that Patrick can’t explain. “I’m Pete.” Before Patrick can say anything he’s run off, and although it annoys Patrick it also amuses him. Trying to be mysterious, is he? He chuckles to himself, pulling out his broken glasses to show his fellow hunters.

As he walks back out into the street, his name loops through Patrick’s head like a line in a catchy song, impossible to get rid of.

_Pete_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments? ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got way longer than I expected it to, over 6000 words!
> 
> Also, sorry if the formatting is kinda whack. I wrote it on my computer but had to format it on mobile, which is why I didn't get it up yesterday. I've been away from my house a lot recently. Anyway, enjoy!

Halfway home, Pete stops and dumps out the rest of his paper airplanes, shaking his backpack until he's sure it's empty.  He doesn't have the patience to spread them teasingly throughout the city tonight.

Something niggles at the back of his head, a thought he doesn't want to really acknowledge he has.  A part of him wants to find more prey.  He doesn't want what happened tonight to repeat _ever_ again.  Plus, if he ever wants to get Patrick to trust him and relax in his presence he needs to make sure his bloodlust is completely under control.  And that means being full.  Still...Patrick did feed him.  _Not enough,_ the vampire side of himself thinks.  _Just the amount necessary to keep you alive._

Conflicted and drained of the buoyant feeling of only a moment before, Pete frowns down at the pavement a few dozen feet below.  It's not like he's going to be so lucky as to find _another_ random person wandering around at night.  It would be too coinci—

"Well I'll be damned," Pete sighs, watching the new figure meander across his field of vision.  He makes his way to the side of the building and climbs quickly and quietly down the fire escape, peeking out from the shadows and drawing in a long breath to catch their scent.  It's sweet and sour candy, pleasing and eye-watering at the same time.  Pete creeps closer towards the street, trying to get a glimpse of them.  The smell is masculine and familiar, and Pete dares to stick his head out of the alley to see who it is.

At first, Pete doesn't recognize him.  Then he steps out of the harsh glare of a streetlamp and Pete realizes it was just how he looked in the light.  He sees it now.  He's three years older than the last time Pete talked to him and lankier than ever, and his hair has completely changed, but there's no mistaking that jawline or those thin limbs, the way he walks, the curve of his nose.  The dip of his hipbone in the space where his jacket and jeans don't quite meet.  _Mikey motherfucking Way._   Pete shrinks back into the shadows, unwilling to be seen by his—he can't really can him is ex if they were never technically dating, can he?

Mikey passes by, oozing annoyance and frustration.  Pete can smell the hatred rolling off of him, a putrid stench that overwhelms his senses.  At last, Pete notices the hand twitching towards the weapon strapped to his hip, as if he's itching for a fight.  As if he's angry, looking for trouble.  He probably is, Pete thinks, noting that he wears the uniform of a different hunting agency, one not associated with SCHA.  Out looking for vampires to stake.

Suddenly, with a rush of memory and guilt brought on by Mikey's familiar features, Pete understands.

That night, all those years ago, when Brendon had nearly saved him from killing another victim.

Long black hair and a turned up nose.

That classic Way profile.

Pete's legs threaten to give out from under him.  He'd nearly killed Mikey's brother.  No wonder he looks so pissed off.  Pete would be too, if a monster had tried to kill the only person he loved more than the world itself.  _The_ only _person_ , Pete thinks, not without bitterness.  Now he feels like even more of a piece of shit than before.

No longer hungry, Pete waits until Mikey is far out of sight—and then some—to scramble out of his hiding place and race home.

He falls into his apartment, forgetting for one moment how his shitty door doesn't latch right, and slams the door shut behind him.  He may still have a few hours of darkness left but there's no way in hell he's going to stay out there while—well.  He doesn't want anymore encounters for the evening, to put it lightly.

It's not until the night is nearly over that Pete belatedly realizes he didn't pick up a newspaper.  "Fuck."  He doesn't dare venture out now; it's far too close to sunrise and he's still reluctant to leave his apartment.

Pete wanders into the kitchen anyway, sitting down and tracing the grain in the faux wood tabletop with his eyes.  Sharpie smudges shade the furniture, smeared nearly clean in some places.  Pete stares harder.  Fine.  He's fine.

_Greasy hair falling into his eyes as he shoves his face deeper into a warm neck._

With a jolt, Pete stands, knocking over his chair.  He bends over.  Leans into his hands, which he has pressed onto the tabletop.  He's _fine._

_So much blood—gallons of the stuff.  He has all he could drink.  But it's not enough.  It will never be enough._

A tremor makes its way through Pete's limbs, and he bites his lips to keep it from trembling.

_Why stop?  Just drain him dry._

Pete pushes away from the table, sending it skidding across the linoleum floor.  So much strength in his body, waiting for the opportune moment to come lashing out and hurt someone.

Nausea rises in the pit of his stomach, and Pete stumbles into the bathroom.  He stares at the toilet helplessly.  He knows he's not going to vomit.  There's not enough blood in him for anything to come up, and his body wouldn't reject the precious liquid like that.  He almost considers heading back into the kitchen to find some boxed rice or something he can munch on, willing to barf his guts out of it takes his mind off—

_Scarlet dribbling down his chin, the content rumble in his throat nearly a purr._

—his absolutely fucking disgusting disregard for human life.

_Running out of his mouth and down Gerard's neck.  He's full but lets the sweet taste flow over his tongue anyway._

God, did it even happen like that?  His mind might be making things up, intent on turning him against himself, but it might not.  Did he even really live?  Oh god, he killed him, didn't he.  Brendon lied.  The heartbeat he heard was his imagination.  He doesn't know what's real anymore.

Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, Pete freezes.  He looks like—he looks—well what he looks like is fucking terrified, but that's not what has the alarm bells blaring.  He looks completely normal, dark circles around his eyes made darker from day-old eyeliner, gaunt expression, shivers wracking his body.  Yeah, he looks like absolute, shit, but he what he doesn't look like is bloodthirsty—

"Monster," Pete whispers.  Fuck.  He's a monster.  And he doesn't even know it.  He looks so trustworthy.  Pete would trust that face.  Fuck.  And—and _Patrick._ He _did_ start to trust that face.  He was right to keep his wrist to himself.  Pete wouldn't have been able to help himself.  He would have sucked that tangy blood right out of him until those Starry Night eyes grew dull in death.  Fuck.

"Oh god," Pete chokes, sliding down to the floor.  Oh god.  He's going to kill everyone he ever meets, isn't he.  He can't be trusted around anyone.  This morning, he really is going to let the sun claim him.

Monster.  Monster.  He's a fucking terrible excuse for a—for anything.  He's an awful  vampire, lost all right to call himself human that night when Beckett sunk his teeth into his neck.  He's nothing.  Nothing but a creature born to kill and hurt and hunt.  Monster.  Fuck.  _Monster.  Mon-ster._

Pete doesn't realize he's saying it out loud until his voice cracks.

He buries his head in his hands, damning thoughts cramming out any other words that would normally dance through his head.  They're bricks, heavy and tied to him, dragging him down into the sea of his self-hatred in an attempt to drown him.  They're winning.

Tremors shudder through Pete's muscles, pent-up emotion that has nowhere else to go.  He can't even fucking cry.

"God fucking damn it," he croaks, the words nearly gibberish even to himself.  He might pass out from it all.  He might vibrate out of his skin.  He might scream.  He might lose himself.

He does sit on the floor and let all the terrible things he's done blow out of proportion and ravage his mind all day.  He does think of Gerard and the way he's sure he killed him.  He does know that he's the worst fucking thing to ever crawl on the face of the Earth since the fucking devil slithered through that tree dressed up in snakeskin.

But what he does not do is let the sun creep over his skin until he is nothing but a glittering pile of flaming ash.  Not now.  Not today.

Not yet.

* * *

Pete doesn't know how long it's been, exactly, when he finally untangles himself from his own limbs and stiffly climbs to his feet.  Every movement is a struggle, fingers curling crookedly on the counter in their attempt to coax the rest of Pete's body from the floor.  He nearly collapses back down, a socked foot skidding out from underneath him—where did his shoe go?  It's sheer force of will that keeps him standing.  Something desperate flutters in Pete's chest, makes a desperate grab for his heart.  He doesn't even understand the feeling.  Just hates it.

Pete shuffles for the door to the bathroom, his whole body protesting.  He feels exactly like he used to back when he was human and would get a fever, impossible to sweat out, achy down to his soul.  Except, you know, a thousand and one times worse.

It's lucky Pete's feeling so sluggish, because if he had opened the door any faster he would have incinerated himself.  As it stands, at the first ray of evening sunlight to pool in the inch-wide opening of the door Pete slams it shut again, able to feel the damaging effect of the light even from the indirect exposure.  His hands are smoking, and his skin crawls uncomfortably with the realization of how close he just came to killing himself.  If it had been morning, when the sun shone in straight through the window, or if he had been a half-second slower in closing the door...

Shaking his hands to try to get the stinging to stop, Pete turns around and runs them under the tap, letting the cool water soothe his burns.  Fascinated, Pete watches the skin on the backs of his hands start to heal, scabbing over and smoothing away scars until it's as if he was never wounded in the first place.

Pete curses himself for not remembering to close the curtains after returning to his apartment.  Why he doesn't just leave them closed in the first place, he doesn't know.  He always checks out of the window before he heads out for the night, flinging the curtains wide and yanking the shades up.  Maybe he just likes to feel the night air on his skin, damp and muffling, reassurance that he's—well, not alive, per say, but not dead either.  That he's still there and hasn't been claimed by the day yet.

It's only now that Pete realizes that he's still trembling.  He's still hyped up on nervous energy and built-up emotion.  Carefully peeling his mind away from all thoughts from—however long ago that was, Pete gives the shower a considering look before turning on the water.  Might at well make the best of his time.  He hasn't showered in weeks—not that he really needs to.  He doesn't sweat, doesn't smell, and his hair gets greasy and limp at a snail's pace.  But his days-old clothes are grimy and there are still flecks of dried blood all over him, gravel ground into hard-to-reach places.

While the water warms—not that it makes much of a difference, Pete wouldn't be too bothered if it was ice cold or boiling hot—Pete strips, jerking the zipper down on his hoodie and shrugging out of it.  He pulls his t-shirt over his head, wriggling out of his skinny jeans and peeling off his boxers.  He steps into the stream of water without a sound, carefully emotionless, and imagines that his sorrow washes of with all the dirt and grime away down the drain.  It's almost calming, except for the way it's too much so.  Pete doesn't vibrate with nerves anymore.  And that's the problem.  He's still.  So still.  If he doesn't think about it, his chest remains completely immobile, lungs good for nothing more than speaking and scenting the air.  He blinks slowly, determined to focus on the little rivers of water on his skin rather than his own head.  It's not a good place to be.

Pete spends way longer in the shower than he needs to, washing his hair too much and scrubbing at his skin too hard, until it's left angry and red.  He leans his head against the tiles, eyes closed, and just stays there a while and lets the water beat down on his back.  To keep his thoughts from darker places, Pete wonders why this building, abandoned as it is, even gets water anymore.  Knowing the Dandies—for he is on the edge of their territory—can't stand the thought of a building, unused as it is, crumbling away and making a mess.  A few times he's heard voices on the stairwell, footsteps upstairs.  Pete's always quick to leave then, but what he guesses is a maintenance crew never bothers him.  He wishes they would fix his damn door already.

When Pete's skin feels swollen with water, fingertips pruney and wrinkled, he turns off the shower.  For a few moments there's nothing but the sound of the last of the water swirling down the drain, the _plip_ of a few more water drops falling from the shower head.

Pete's sense of time is completely screwed up.  He has no idea is he's spent five minutes or an hour in the bathroom since he opened the door.  He doesn't know if it's safe to exit the bathroom again.

Stepping carefully out of the tub, Pete reaches for the ratty towel he hasn't washed in too long and wraps it around his waist, kicking at the discarded clothes on the floor.  He doesn't bother drying off, letting instead the air cool his skin and evaporate away the water.

There's no light coming from underneath the door, which Pete takes as a good sign.  Still, he takes his time in pulling the door open, relieved when only the weakest of sunlight lights up the room.  From the looks of things the star is below the horizon, which means that even though it's uncomfortable, it's also safe to come out.

Pete snags his dirty clothes off the floor and heads to the bedroom, dumping them back on the floor in an ever-growing pile and rifling through the scantily-filled closet.  He pulls out an almost identical pair of black skinny jeans, although these are ripped at the knees from some other night when he'd been trying to be cool and slide along the ground and only succeeding in tearing up his pants.  Pete yanks the only shirt he has left—some dusty old navy blue button-up he didn't even know he had, maybe his mom had bought it for him back when he was in college in the hopes he'd start to look more presentable?—off its hanger.  He refuses to tuck it in or button the cuffs on principal, instead rolling up the sleeves past his elbows.  There's no more clean underwear which, honestly, doesn't bother him too much.  Not like he hasn't gone commando before.  He hops into his jeans, nearly falling over when his right foot gets stuck at the hem.

Running a hand through his hair, Pete frowns.  It's still damp, and starting to kink on the ends.  God, sometimes being emo requires so much maintenance.  He smudges on eyeliner as quickly—and therefore as messily—as possible, and straightens his hair even though he knows he shouldn't when it's still damp like this.  He singes the tip of his ear once, still not used to the pointed end never being where he expects it to be, and curses quietly.  A few minutes later he leans back and inspects his condition.  He doesn't look like total shit, which is a plus.  Yeah, he still looks vaguely shitty, but not as terrible as he had last—yester—whenever the fuck it was that he had almost died.

Pete yanks his flat iron's cord out of the wall and walks out of his apartment.

He feels bad that he doesn't have paper airplanes for Patrick, but fuck it, he's been having a crisis the kid can deal with it.  It is strange to leave without his backpack though.  Or his hoodie.  Damn, he really needs to do laundry.  Maybe if he gets back early enough he can break into that laundromat down the street again.

Pete keeps to Chicago's shadows, one eye out for any humans he might encounter, the other for vampires.  Suddenly, Pete realizes how tired he is, how dry his throat feels, and he closes his eyes in tired resignation.  He can feel it building up inside of him again, the hunger.  Thirst.  Bloodlust.  Whatever the fuck you want to call it.  It doesn't matter because it all boils down to the same thing.  Him stabbing someone four times in the neck—at once.

It sickens him.  Disgusts him.  He hates it, and that part of him, with all of his being.  But he knows what happened the one—and only, he made sure of that—time he tried to deny his hunger for too long.

_A pretty face and a pointed nose._

No, he's not going to think about that right now.

But he does need to think about his hunger.  He's more determined than ever to take care of it while he still has a sense of himself, while he can still hold back.

So Pete goes hunting.

It's strange; all of his usual locations are completely deserted, smells stale and days old.  He's uncomfortable with how far outside of his usual range he has to go before he smells something remotely interesting.

The man's scent is fresh and unusually sweet, the kind of youth that is mixed fear and excitement about being out at night.  Pete gets closer, careful to stay out of the flow of the streetlights.  As he nears, he can see the young man is not alone, walking with his arm around the face of a woman.  His coat is wrapped around her shoulders.  Her perfume, the feminine tang of her skin, accounts for the sweetness of their scent.  They must be together so often that their smell has started to combine.  How cute.

Pete breathes deeply.  Yes, he'll do.  The girl won't be a problem; she'll probably start to run at the first sign of Pete.

It takes Pete less than half of a second to reach them, running in front of them and stopping them each with a hand to the chest.  " _Relax.  I've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth_ ," he tells the boy, who instantly slackens under his touch, mouth snapping shut, clearly confused.  The girl, to Pete's surprise, only gives him a slightly terrified look before speed walking away—she doesn't even scream.  He looks after her for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand.

Dragging the man out of the middle of the street and into the shadows, Pete smiles at him, feels his eyes slide over to black.  " _There's nothing to worry about_."

The man gives a dazed nod, bottle-green eyes glassy.  It's not until Pete presses him against the wall and starts to nuzzle against his neck that he gives the slightest form of protest, but by then Pete's positioned his mouth right where he wants it, licking the skin beneath one last time, and bites down.  The prey doesn't scream, merely gives a panicked gasp before Pete's venom kicks in and his limbs go to jelly.  Pete moans at the thick taste flooding over his tongue, smiling against the man's neck.  God, this is so good.  So good.  He hums into his neck, and he feels the man shiver beneath him.

As always, a piece of the man's mind slips in with his blood.  Pete nearly pauses—but not quite, not when this tastes _so good_ —at the strange sensation, unlike anything he's experienced before.  He can't quite put his finger on what's different.  The thought slips his mind and he presses in closer.

Suddenly, there's a hand pulling at the hem of Pete's shirt, and he's surprised enough to pull away from the carotid artery of his meal to see who's doing it.  It's the man he has pinned up against the wall, who tilts his head back, exposing his neck even more.  His breathing is heavy, and he presses his hands to the small of Pete's back and pulls him closer, pressing their hips together.  This—this has never happened before.

Confused, Pete makes as if to step back, but the sorrowful sound that tears its way from the man's throat has him freezing where he stands.  He's thrown so off-center he feels himself slipping out of the vespertilio state; all he's able to do is stare at the person he has trapped in front of him.  The look in the man's wide eyes screams _please_ , and Pete wasn't quite done anyway so he brings his head back down and drinks.

When he's pulled all he dares from the man—he still wants more, of course; it's not enough, it's never enough, he'll never state the thirst in his bones, never be free from his reliance on the pain of others—he eases himself off the man, with a slow lick to his neck to heal the wound, pressing his mouth lightly to his skin in a kiss of thanks, and looks into his eyes.  The prey stares steadily back, tongue darting out to wet his parted lips.  Pete's thoroughly unsettled.  No one has ever responded this...positively to being fed from before.  Never acted like they wanted it so much.  Pete takes a step away, but the man reaches out to grab a fistful of Pete's shirt again.  "You can leave," Pete says, puzzled and forgetting his compel.

"I know," the man murmurs.  His eyes are clear, determined, and suddenly Pete's guard is up.  He bristles.  "Why don't you?"

"Maybe I don't want to."  He reaches towards Pete again, who bats his hand away.

" _I really think you do_ ," Pete spits, freaked the fuck out now, and the man tilts his head.  Confusion is etched across his features.

"I really think I do," he repeats dreamily, and starts walking after his girlfriend.

Pete feels the trembling start up in his limbs again.  He hadn't done that, had he?  He hadn't made him...want it?  Pete swallows down a sudden surge of nausea and races off towards the SCHA office, slowing when he gets there to make sure there aren't any hunters who would love to take his head off milling around.  He scales the wall quickly, popping his head over the lip built to keep people from falling off the roof—

—and almost does fall when he realizes there's already someone up there, staring right at him.  Pete yelps, his left hand slipping.  He slams himself against the side of the building to keep from plummeting to the ground.

"Holy shit—Pete?"

Pete snaps his chin up.  "Patrick?  What the fuck are you doing up here?  You scared the shit out of me."  He pulls himself over the edge of the roof and tries to make the heap he tumbles into not look so undignified.

It is indeed Patrick, shifting nervously from foot to foot and peering around like he'd been expecting Pete to jump out of the shadows at him.  Which, to be fair, he kind of did.  He looks a little startled, too, pulling the stake he holds in one hand closer to his body.

"Pete," Patrick begins, obviously distressed, "I hadn't heard from you in three days.  I kept leaving you questions and things and thought that maybe you just couldn't like, find where I was putting them or something"—he gestures towards the edge of the roof, where the lip is crumbling, leaving just enough space in the mortar between bricks to shove little scraps of paper in—"but you never replied or took them or left anything of your own or—"  He cuts himself off, shaking his head.  "I thought you had backed out on me, or had just like, agreed to help me so that I'd let you live and then you'd go and fucking, and fucking kill ten people or something— _god._ "  He tilts his head back.  "I'm sorry.  I should have had faith in you.  Where were you?"

"Three—three days?"  Pete's floored by the information being presented to him.  He was sitting in his apartment for _three whole fucking days?_   Well shit.  He has to fight to keep his composure, storing away that information to freak out over later.

"Uh...yeah?"  Pete clearly reads the question behind Patrick's words: _Did you not know that?_   "So, where were you?"

"I was—busy," Pete says at last, just for the sake of saying something.  "And you didn't know me.  Of course you didn't trust in me."  Who wouldn't?  He's given no reason for anyone to trust him.  Suspicion and fear are the only suitable reactions to something as _revolting_ as he is.

Patrick stares at him curiously, eyes flicking down to his lips and Pete does definitely _not_ feel something clench in his chest because that would be ridiculous.

But then Patrick says, "You've got—I mean.  Were you feeding earlier?" and totally ruins the moment.

Pete's hands fly to his mouth, which he realizes too late is still covered in blood.  "Dammit.  Shit.  Patrick.  I—I promise I didn't hurt anyone.  The person—he actually—I don't know.  Fuck.  He almost didn't want to leave, I had to force him to go but god, I swear, shit, this is not what it looks— _fuck_."

God, Patrick probably doesn't believe him, is probably going to stake him any moment not.  Pete knows he'll let him.  Patrick shifts, and Pete must flinch away, because the younger man surprised.  "I—no, Pete.  I'm not going to—shit.  You said they wanted it?"

"I—" Pete's almost too afraid to keep going, so all he does is nod instead.  Well if this isn't the most awkward conversation he's had in his whole life.

All Patrick does is look thoughtful.  "We've had some reports of that," he murmurs, "people who seem to go looking for vampires.  They say they enjoy it."  He shakes his head.  "I certainly don't agree with them," he mutters darkly.

"Um," Pete says articulately.

Patrick gives him a sharp look.  "I don't blame you for needing to eat, Pete, although I would really like it if you didn't have blood all over you.  But what we need to do right now is—what are you wearing?"

"What am I—what?"  Pete's thrown off by the sudden change of subject.  He looks down at his outfit.  "Uh...clothes?"

"I know it's just..." Patrick trails off, eyes roaming over Pete's torso, vision scraping almost painfully across his tattoos.  "You weren't wearing a button-down last time," he says lamely, flushing.

"Sorry if this was the only clean shirt I had," Pete retorts, then wishes he could take it back.  Patrick can still kill him if he wants to, remember?  Be nice.

"No—I, uh, it doesn't matter.  You look fine.  Whatever.  Anyway—what was I saying?"  Pete doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look so red.

"Something about 'what we need to do right now,'" Pete replies, wondering why Patrick is being like this.

"Right, um.  So, can you tell me more about this girl?  Like where you were when you found her?  We've been trying to find these people and convince them that what they're doing isn't healthy, that it's dangerous."  Patrick looks nervous, like he's suddenly realized he's talking to a fucking vampire, asking him about his feeding habits, and he curls in on himself defensively, grip tightening on the stake he has yet to put away.

"Him," Pete corrects.

"Him?"

"It was a man.  You said girl."

"Oh."  Pete's surprised Patrick hasn't burst into flames by now.  "It's just—usually, you know, male vampires prefer women and female vampires prefer men, cause like, vampirism is a very...sexual thing, but like, whatever."  His voice has turned into a squeak by the end.

Pete almost feels like laughing.  "I'm gay," he states, because what the fuck, Patrick can't give him any more shit for that than being a vampire, so why not.  "And I knew that.  I _am_ a vampire, remember?" he reminds him, giving a cheeky grin that shows off his fangs.  It's fun to see Patrick like this.  He'll have to remember that for the future.

"Yep!" Patrick says, too loud.  "Uh, yeah, yeah I remember."

Pete can't help it anymore.  He's laughs, loud and braying, startling Patrick, who jumps back a bit.  "Sorry," he apologizes, reigning in his amusement.

Patrick doesn't make eye contact with him.  "Right, so, if you could, like, tell me where you were or whatever.  And just like, if you've seen anything else strange recently."

Pete shrugs.  "No, not reall—oh.  Well, I  mean, I'm not sure how important it is, but."

"Tell me anyway," Patrick urges, pulling out a tiny notebook from his pocket that has a minuscule pencil shoved in the spiral binding.

"It's really not that big of a deal," Pete says.  "There was just no one out on the street tonight.  Like, no one.  Except that guy and his girlfriend or whatever.  Didn't even smell like anyone.  Everything is stale."

Patrick stares.  "That...that's probably because of the Infinity Massacre.  No one wants to be on the streets at night right now, except those crazies who _want_ to get attacked."

"The Infinity Massacre?" Pete asks.

"Where the fuck have you _been_ these last few days?!" Patrick exclaims.  "The Infinity Club was attacked two nights ago.  Pete—twenty-seven people were killed."

" _What?_ "

"What the fuck, man!" Patrick's a little angry now.  "Do you even fucking care that people _lost their lives?_   Or were you too busy hiding under your rock or, or wherever the hell you were to notice?"

_He's right,_ Pete thinks.  _I don't know anything and I'm terrible and I shouldn't even be here I obviously don't know what the fuck I'm doing why why why why am I like this._

"I," Pete chokes, something wound and tight and uncomfortable in his throat.  "I."  Panic builds in his chest, a coiled ball of energy that loosens and expands and wraps around his lungs and his heart and his esophagus.  He's being strangled from the inside out.  "I."  His mouth gapes stupidly, fish-like.

And now Patrick's looking at him like he's gone bat-shit crazy— _maybe I have_ —concern etched across his pretty features.  "Pete?"

"No, yeah, got it," Pete gasps, forcing himself to calm down and not act like a crazy deranged vampire who's looking to get staked.  "Sorry I."  He forces air into his lungs; the action grounds him, weights him, steadies him.  "Like I said.  I was busy.  I haven't been caught up on everything."

Patrick looks like he wants to say more, but he just nods gruffly and folds his arms.  The sleeves of his jacket are pushed up, and Pete can see the way the fine hairs on his arms stand on end in the chill breeze.  Patrick pulls his sleeves down and Pete forces himself to meet his eyes again.

"I don't really know you," Patrick states.

"I don't really know _you_ ," Pete returns.

"But I'm willing to give you a chance," he continues, ignoring Pete's interruption.  "Because you don't fucking make any sense.  You're not like any other vampire I've ever met.  Hell, you're not like any other _human_ I've ever met.  So I'm going to ignore all this...weird shit and just.  Tell me more about these people you saw tonight.  We'll cross reference it with known vampire locations and popular feeding areas."  He shifts.  "I told Andy I was up here cause I heard a noise.  We need to go quickly or he'll start to wonder where I went."

"Right," Pete says weakly.  He just really fucking wants to get out of there at this point.  As fast as he can while still retaining coherence, Pete relays all the information he gleaned from his prey that evening.  The way Patrick is looking at him, fierce and all-seeing, is making him uneasy, like he should leave five minutes ago.

Just as Pete turns to go, Patrick catches him by the wrist, darting forward and grabbing on.  It takes Pete unawares, and for a few moments all he can do is look down at their hands in shock.  "Pete," Patrick begins slowly.  "You know.  I was, well, a while back I wasn't—I wasn't exactly the happiest person on the planet."

Pete's not sure where he's going with this.

"All I'm saying," Patrick continues, as though he knows he's not being clear, "is that when I—was like that I.  Well.  I know what it looks like when you're not really fine, even if you say you are; you can always see it in your eyes and.  And.  I don't know where I'm going with this."  Patrick squeezes Pete's wrist reflexively, fingers tightening of their own accord.  "You have sad eyes," he finishes lamely.

Pete's almost...touched?  He's not sure that is the word.  But he still thinks it's nice that someone seems to care, even if it's because Patrick seems to have forgotten that he doesn't deserve compassion. He grins weakly, baring his fangs, to remind him. Patrick's eyes flick down to his teeth but he's able to contain his grimace—mostly. "Uh, thanks I guess. But I'm fine, really."

"Pete, you know you don't have to lie to—"

"You really need to listen to me," Pete interrupts, smile growing strained. "Because I'm telling you the truth, and I mean it when I say I'm okay. Trust me."

Patrick doesn't move for a moment, but then he lets go of Pete's wrist and steps back. "Alright, Pete. Alright." Without another word he starts walking back to the rooftop exit. He points in the general direction of the nook he's carved out of the roof. "Just—there's that. There." And with one last look back he pulls open the trap door and disappears inside.

Pete definitely doesn't state after him. He doesn't stay for a few minutes watching the place where he disappeared wishing he would come back out. Definitely not.

* * *

Pete's door is open.

_It just swung open,_ he tells himself, loitering out in the hallway. But he thinks of the Dandy maintenance patrols he'd seen. Had they finally found him out? Were they waiting for him? Were they judging his huge pile of laundry on the floor? 

Slowly Pete steps inside, inhaling deeply. There's no Dandy scent, which throws him off. ...Maybe there really was no one there?

He doesn't believe it for a second.

Concentrating, Pete takes another breath, deep, focusing on the pull of air into his nose. _There._ It's not Dandy, and not quite Clandestine, either. Something in between.

Pete steps further into his apartment, but freezes when he hears a slight creak. It doesn't come from his own feet. He's lived here for over two years; he knows where to step so that the floor doesn't give away his presence. Pete thinks his ear might actually pop with how hard he's straining his hearing.

Then—something, up ahead, down the hall, moving between rooms. Too fast to see. Definitely a vampire. Definitely a vampire that knows Pete is there. Definitely a vampire that knows Pete is there and doesn't want to be seen. But who could it be?

Guard up, Pete stalks towards his bedroom, stepping so lightly along the floor it feels like he's floating. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. _If this were a horror movie,_ Pete thinks, _this would be the part where the violins stop screeching and the audience waits for the monster to leap out._

Unlike in a horror movie, Pete doesn't relax and turn away before being attacked. No, he's still tense and concentrated when the other vampire jumps out at him.

Pete yells at the force of the impact, scratching his fingernails across their face and instantly sinking into the vespertilio state. He snaps towards their face, and they just manage to push him away before jumping on him again, tackling him to the floor. They're taller than Pete, and they use every inch to their advantage, pinning down his wrists and sitting down on his hips so he can't move.

Pete thrashes wildly, caught beneath them, until he gets a clear view of their face. When he does, he stills instantly, disbelief caught in his throat.

"What the fuck," he chokes, "are _you_ doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what do you think of that? Is Gerard actually dead? What do you think of Patrick and Pete's interaction on SCHA? And _who is the vampire in Pete's apartment?_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long to get up. I have no excuse other than I'm working on another fic that I'm very excited about. Enjoy!

" _Pete?_ " Ryan exclaims.

"Who the fuck else would it be?" Pete spits.  "I fucking live here."

"Well yeah," Ryan replies, awkward.  "But I didn't think you'd be back yet.  I thought you were a Dandy."

"Obviously not," Pete grumbles.  "Now, would you fucking get _off_ me?"

"Oh."  Ryan blinks stupidly.  "Right."  He scrambles backwards, settling back and squashing Pete's thighs before he scoots off and clambers to his feet.  He holds out his hand, which Pete resolutely ignores.  He's standing within a second, glaring dangerously at the intruder.

"Why are you here?" Pete asks, eyes narrowed, guard up.  It's then that he notices what Ryan's wearing.  "Is that—my _hoodie?_ "

Ryan looks down at the red jacket zipped over his grimy clothes.  "Uh, no.  It's mine."

"You _took_ it?" Pete exclaims, clenching his fists.  "You'd better fucking give that back."

"No, wait," Ryan says, stepping back and holding up his hands.  "Seriously.  It's mine.  Like, yours is—not this one.  I don't know why you don't—look, yours is back in your room, on that giant-ass pile of dirty laundry."

If Pete could blush he would.  So the bastard _had_ been judging his mess.  "You still haven't answered my question," he growls.  "Why are you here?"

"I've come to join you, of course," Ryan replies cheerfully.

_"_ _Join_ me?"

"Well, yeah.  I decided Clandestine life wasn't for me, and I sure as hell wasn't going to go to the Dandies."  As he's talking Ryan heads back towards Pete's bedroom.  Pete follows warily.  "They'd either kill me or turn me insane, the crazy bastards.  And you're the only person I know that's successfully made it on their own so...here we are."  He holds out his arms and grins, like Pete should be glad he's here.

"No," Pete states.

"No?"  A frown creases its way between Ryan's eyebrows.

"Yeah, get the fuck out of my apartment," Pete all-but-growls.  He notices that the fading Clandestine scent Ryan carries is stronger in the bedroom, like he's been in there a while.  "What have you been doing in here anyway?"

"Um, hiding out," Ryan says, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

Pete sighs.  He's pretty much come to the realization that Ryan isn't going to suddenly pounce on him—Pete's come to the conclusion that Ryan is about as intimidating as soggy toast—and he relaxes incrementally.  "Fine, whatever.  But you need to leave now."

"But Pete," Ryan wheedles, and Pete has to restrain himself from smacking the younger vampire.  "We just got here.  And the sun could come up before we find another place to stay."

Pete throws up his hands.  "God, fine, stay for today, but tomorrow night you're—did you fucking say _we_?"

"Yeah," drawls a voice from behind him.   Pete whirls around and shies away from what he sees.  The vampire is tall, taller even than Ryan, who already towers over Pete.  He looks big, too, imposing, like he could be hit with a truck and still be left standing just as nonchalantly as he is now. His jacket is maroon, darker than Pete's, but the similarity is still apparent. "He fucking did." He tilts his head back, jutting out his chin, and his mass of thick curls tumbles out of the way, revealing a kind but stern-looking face.

"Who are _you?_ " Pete growls, bristling. He's feeling trapped and uncomfortable, and it's taking all his willpower to stay put and hear these two out instead of fleeing as fast he can or kicking their asses.

The tall vampire shrugs lethargically, like he has all day to complete the motion. "I'm Ray. I'm with Ryan."

"Yeah, I got that," Pete scoffs.

"We're Clandestine deserters, like I said," Ryan cuts in.

"But why are you _here?_ " Pete prods. "Why me?"

Ray shrugs, making a noncommittal grunting noise. Ryan rolls his eyes at his friend and turns to Pete. "Look, you're not the only one who wants to do things a different way. Dandies are fucking insane and Clandestine vampires are violent as hell. Not everyone fits into those categories. There has to be another choice," he finishes quietly.

"I—" Pete can feel himself wavering. He's going to let them stay, he can feel it. He's confused. Pete doesn't want company; he's gotten used to living on his own, and having two extra people to take care of really doesn't sound like it's going to be a fun time.  But they seem so sincere, set in their ways, and if they truly have nowhere else to go, who is Pete to turn them away, especially when they're looking to him to be an example to live their lives?  "I—um."

"Pete please," Ryan begs.  "At least for a few days, so that we can find somewhere else to live."

Pete lets out his breath in a huff.  "Fine.  A few days.  That's it."  He can't help but notice how he's gone from kicking them out to letting them stay the day to several days in less than five minutes.  Fuck, he's going to be stuck with them isn't he.  He eyes the two Cland—no, they're not Cladnestine.  They're just...vampires now.  He looks them over.  "You two have anything else to tell me?"

"Um, yeah there's—actually three of us?" Ryan replies, wincing.

Pete groans.  "Oh my god, you—"

"Is he letting us stay?" interrupts a voice from behind him.

"Yeah," Ray answers, face still carefully neutral.

Pete closes his eyes and waits for the soft patter of feet to work their way in front of him before he opens them again.  He's not expecting what he sees.  She's shorter than the other two, when he'd half-thought they would be even taller.  She's closer to his height, maybe an inch taller, thin and graceful-looking.  Her skin is dark and her hair is darker, pulled back into a bun, messy and with stray curls escaping.  Her jacket is bright cherry red, near the shade of his own.  She gives a sly grin, bouncing on the balls of her feet, deep eyes glinting, fangs exposed.  They're small and razor-sharp-looking.

She looks like trouble.

"You're Pete?" she asks, peering into his face.

Pete draws back his head.  "Uh, yes.  Who—?"

"I'm Zoe."  She holds out her hand, shrugging unconcernedly when Pete doesn't take it.  She sticks it in her pocket.  "Nice to meet you."  Her smile is bordering a little too close to manic fangirl for Pete's liking, so he clears his throat and takes a step back.

"No one's sleeping in my bed," he proclaims, a weak attempt at humor.

Ryan frowns, wrinkling his nose.  "But...Pete, vampires don't sle— _ow_!"  Zoe kicks him in the shin, and he glowers, crossing his arms and pouting.  Zoe just gives Pete a cheeky wink.  "Don't worry about it."

Pete studies her for a moment.  "How old are you?"

She flashes her white white smile.  "Thirty-seven."

Pete has to bite back his scathing retort.  "You know what I mean."

"What?"  She fakes confusion.  "I was born in 79."

"Fucking—listen, just answer the damn—"

"Seventeen," Zoe interrupts, rolling her eyes, like it was _Pete_ who was being the annoying little shit.

"God," Pete breathes, partially with frustration and partially with disbelief.  "They've been taking them so young for so long.  It's like they have nothing better to do than ruin teenagers' lives."

"Um, I'm 27," Ray offers.

"No one asked, Toro," Ryan grumbles, suddenly moody.  He picks at some imaginary lint on his sleeve.

"Hey you don't have to be a dick," Ray retorts, "just cause your friend wouldn't come with you."

Ryan slouches farther into himself.  "Jon'll change his mind."

Zoe sighs, Ray snorts, and Pete looks on in confusion.  "Yeah, just like Frank will change his mind.  Honestly, I'm surprised you even got us two," Ray says bitingly.

Ryan looks away, and Zoe appears at his side and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.  She glares at the other ex-Clandestine.  "Shut the fuck up, Ray.  You came cause you wanted to.  It's too late for second thoughts.  You've already got the damn hoodie on and everything."

Ray won't meet her eyes, but he grumbles something that makes her grin.

"Um," Pete says.

Ryan looks up.  "Sorry," he apologizes, exhaustion pulling his words down to plop onto the floor.  "We're kind of a mess."

"No shit," Pete replies bluntly.  "But," he adds, when Ryan looks like he's about to cry, "so am I.  So I guess we're all in the same boat here."

Zoe gives another grin. "See, I told you Ray. He'd let us stay."

Ray only grunts in reply.

"Okay so why don't we all like, leave my bedroom now," Pete suggests.

"I dunno I kinda like it here."  Zoe looks around and smiles, all crinkly eyes and lips spread wide over even teeth, smiles even at Pete's embarrassingly huge mountain of dirty laundry.

"He wants us to get out of here, Zoe," Ryan murmurs, "so let's do that."  She shrugs in reply, and a second later she blurs away—she's already in the living room.

"Damn, why didn't you close the blinds?  You trying to get us killed?" comes her voice.

Ryan looks apologetic and Ray follows her.  "Sorry," Ryan tells the floor.

"It's not like you can control her," Pete grumbles, although he's wishing he could.  If Brendon were here, he'd have them all under his thumb in a matter of—fuck.  He wasn't actually thinking like that, was he?  God, he was.  Oh god.  See.  This is exactly why Pete's a piece of shit.  If he could he'd take every moment to exploit others, use his, whatever the fuck you want to call them, _powers_ or whatever, to exploit everyone around him.  This is why he doesn't have friends.  He doesn't deser—

"Pete?"

The vampire in question jerks his head up, startled.  "What?"

Ryan is giving him the same shrewd look as when they'd first met.  "Are you—are you okay?"

"Why does everyone keep fucking asking me that?" Pete growls, overly defensive.  He knows it makes him sound guilty but he can't seem to bring himself to care.

Ryan holds up his hands in defense.  "Okay, okay, god."  He follows after his friends, and Pete can hear them bickering in the other room.

This is going to be a long day.  Pete tries to think of a way he can avoid them and doesn't come up with anything...until his eye catches on his laundry again.  He groans internally, but he _does_ need clothes and if a day spend doing laundry is how he's going to get some alone time—so be it.

He doesn't actually have that many clothes, so by trying really hard, Pete manages to wrap his arms around everything and carry it out of the room.  His new roommates are lounging on the cough complaining about the lack of channels on the TV.

Zoe sits up and twists around so she's looking over the back of the sofa when Pete passes by.  "Where're you going?"

"Laundry," he grunts, not stopping.

"I can come with," she offers, and now Pete does stop.

He turns around, glaring at a sock that's threatening to fall, and meets the eyes of the other three vampires.  They're all staring curiously now.

"I'm fine," Pete replies, taking a half step back.

"But—the sun," Ryan says, and Pete shakes his head.  "I was going to go to the laundry room here.  I've never even been in it before but...I won't have to go outside to use it."  He doesn't actually know if it even exists.

"How've you done your laundry before then?" Zoe asks.  Pete curses her curiosity.

"I broke into the laundromat down the street a few times," he replies with a sigh.

Ray speaks up, "Then how do you know it's going to work if you've nev—"

"I'll figure it out," Pete snaps, interrupting him.  "I got it."

"I can come," Zoe says again.  "We used to have a really finicky washing machine; I can probably help get these to work."

"I said I was _fine_."  Pete takes a step back and turns around, pushing the door open with his shoulder.  The pattering of feet follows him anyway, and he grits his teeth and screams internally.

"I thought I'd come anyway," Zoe chirps, practically _skipping_ along next to him.  Pete grumbles incoherently, and she just grins her crazy fangirl grin at him again.

Turns out it was a good thing she insisted on coming—although he wouldn't be caught dead admitting that—because otherwise Pete wouldn't have known where to kick the damned washer to get it running, or even where to find the room.  It's a small room, practically a hall closet, that Pete figures was used by the owner of the building for their personal laundry needs.  At least it doesn't need quarters.

It's awkward at first, Zoe sitting atop the washing machine and humming, legs crossed.  She doesn't openly stare at him, but Pete knows she's paying attention to what he's doing.  He leans back against the wall, shaking his head so that his bangs fall forward and hide more of his face.  He wishes he had a newspaper or something.  Anything to distract himself from Zoe's indirect watch.

Of course, thinking about newspapers makes him think of Patrick.  It's almost against his will that the smile lifts the corners of his lips.  The young hunter is an interesting character.  Pete's kind of...glad he met him.  Doesn't hurt that he's easy on the eyes, too.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I—what?"

"You're smiling," Zoe points out.  "Is it something funny?  Cause if so I wanna know."

"I wasn't thinking about anything," Pete mutters.

Zoe studies him for a moment.  "Okay, then _who_ were you thinking about."

"I told you—I wasn't—I'm not thinking about anything.  Or any _one_ ," he adds, when Zoe opens her mouth again.

The vampire just shrugs, her own grin lighting up her face.  "Sure," she agrees.  "Whatever you say."

* * *

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," Pete pleads, looking each of the vampires in the eye in turn.  He's finally back in his red hoodie, although the feeling is a little stranger than he though it would be, with the other three vampires wearing a matching jacket.  "I have to go do something and I should be back by sunrise."

"Where're you going?" Zoe asks, and Pete just stares at her.

"Somewhere."  God, if she isn't going to cause him all sorts of trouble.  "If you're going to look for somewhere to stay, stick together while you do it.  Don't pull some horror movie splitting-up shit, okay?"

"Got it," Ray affirms.

Pete doesn't quite believe they can manage to stay out of trouble, but what else is he supposed to do?  Make them stay quiet and still and inside all night?  He leaves with an uneasy glace over his shoulder, unnerved when the group looks _too_ inconspicuous.

He's relieved to make it to SCHA, relieved to see the corner of a piece of paper shoved into the crack in the roof.  He picks at it until he's able to pull it out and unfolds the paper slowly.  The handwriting is so obviously _Patrick_ that it nearly hurts.  It's just an address and the words _meet me?_ but Pete carefully places the paper in his pocket like it's a hundred-year-old treasure map.

Within the minute he's at the location, smelling Patrick out and coming up behind him.  He's careful to make enough noise that Patrick knows he's there.  Sneaking up on him is the best way to get a stake to the chest.

Even so, Patrick still seems surprised to see Pete there.  "I half didn't expect you to show," he admits.

"I'm here," Pete says simply, and Patrick nods.

"Yeah.  You are.  Guess it's time to start trusting you, huh?" he grins ruefully.

Pete shrugs.  Patrick doesn't have to trust him if he doesn't want to.  Pete wouldn't.  But Patrick's not like that.  He's kind and a good person and everything Pete's not, which is probably the reason he finds himself thinking about the hunter so much—he's interesting.  At least, that's what he tells himself.

"So what are we doing here?" Pete asks.

Patrick shifts his bag.  "I heard that there was going to be Dandy activity down here tonight."  He shoots him a wary look.  "You don't have a problem with—killing them, do you?"

Pete feels something icy and angry slide through his veins.  "No," he growls.  "I do not."   If Patrick is surprised at Pete's willingness to kill his own kind, he doesn't show it.

Patrick beckons, and Pete follows him as he goes up to the nearest building and pulls out a set of keys, flipping right to the one he needs and unlocking the door.  At Pete's quizzical expression, he grins.  "There are perks to heading the best vampire hunting agency in the city.  And this," he shoves his shoulder into the door to open it, "is one of them."

Following him inside, Pete takes a look around.  There's nothing special about the building.  Just normal office space.  Patrick holds his arms wide.  "We've got the place to ourselves," he declares, maybe cocking his hip a little more than necessary—not that Pete notices.  "No one will bother us here."  Those words and the way he bends down to start pulling things out of his messenger bag send Pete's mind straight to the gutter.  _You're so fucking gay_ , he thinks.  There's no denying it, Patrick is hot, but that doesn't mean he gets to think about that right now.  They're doing a job.

Pete clears his throat.  "So what exactly are we doing?"

Patrick looks up from where he's crouched on the floor.  "Waiting for the Dandies to get here."

"Right."  Pete can't help but stare when Patrick returns his gaze to whatever the hell he's doing.  His long hair sticks out from beneath his hat, red-gold and pretty, curving down the sides of his cheeks, framing his defined cheekbones.  His lips are parted, moving slightly as he says something to himself under his breath.  When he looks up Pete's glad he's a vampire for how quickly he can move and act like he hadn't been staring.  "Let's find a stake-out place."

Acting nonchalantly, Pete shrugs and follows Patrick up the stairs.  The young hunter still tenses up whenever Pete gets too close, so Pete makes sure to keep several feet of space between them at all times.  Patrick makes small talk as they climb the stairs, and Pete replies politely, unable to keep his gaze from Patrick's mouth.  They pass the second story landing, and stop at the third.

"Anything else you've noticed recently?" Patrick asks, fiddling with the key to the stairwell.  It won't quite go in the lock.

Pete thinks of the three vampires back in his apartment.  Should he tell him?  Probably.  Does he want to tell him?  Pete's not sure.  Is he going to tell him?  Well...no.  He figures he needs some more time to get things figured out.  Pete gives a smile.  "No, nothing out of the ordinary.  It's only been one day."

Patrick nods in agreement.  "Doesn't hurt to ask," he explains, then makes a pleased noise when the deadbolt slides to the side.  He pulls the door open.  "You never know what could—"  He's cut off by someone barreling into him and yanking him to the side.  Someone else wraps their arms around Pete, and he struggles to get out of their grip.  They're strong, though, and all they do is tighten their hold.

"Fuck!" Patrick swears, kicking out his legs.  A Dandy has one arm curled lazily around his neck, the other snaking it's way inside his jacket, and Patrick's expression turns frantic.  "What the fuck are you—fucking stop it!" he chokes, breath coming out in a wheeze.  He's really freaking out.

Pete desperately tries to squirm out of his assailant's grasp.  "Let him go!" he shouts hoarsely, watching as the Dandy's hand roams around his side and slides along his waist.  The Dandy chuckles, pulling a stake out of the inside of Patrick's coat and throwing it to the side, where it clatters messily to the side.  "Don't worry," he croons, and there's something familiar about the greedy lilt to his voice, "we won't hurt your little friend...yet."

"What were you two doing up here?" the Dandy holding Pete breathes in his ear, her voice sickly-sweet.  "You taking him up here so you could be alone when you had your way with him?"

Pete doesn't reply, but a desperate noise makes it out of his throat.  "Oh don't tell me you've made _friends_ with him," a third voice drawls, stepping forward.  He stops when he sees Pete.  "You..."  There's no mistaking who it is.  It's the tallest person Pete's ever met, taller even than Ray.  He's got to be fucking ten feet tall, with a thin face a perfect hair.  Pete can't remember his name, but he remembers watching him almost die.

"Me," Pete spits, not giving up the struggle.

"You know him, Weekes?" the Dandy holding Pete asks lazily.  Fuck.  That's right.  Weekes.  _Dallon_ Weekes.

"Yeah," Dallon growls, and Pete sees Patrick looking wildly between them all like _what the fuck is happening_.

"Let us go," Pete demands, and the vampire holding Patrick just laughs.

"In your fucking dreams," hisses Pete's Dandy.

"Cool it, Garcia," Dallon demands, and he bends down and gets in Pete's face.  "What are you doing here?"

 Pete feels his lip curl up in a snarl.  "Trying to kill you."

This time Dallon's the one laughing, and he leans back, long arms tangling themselves up as he crosses them.  "Good luck with that."

"Thanks," Pete says scathingly, and then with a strength he didn't know he possessed surges out of Garcia's arms and launches himself across the floor, snatching up Patrick's discarded stake and lunging back towards Patrick's captor.  Dallon and Garcia haven't even moved by the time the wood is buried deep in the other Dandy's back.  He chokes for half a second and then his body implodes into a glittering pile of dust, sending up bright flashes and puffs of smoke where it hits the ground.  Patrick stumbles to the side.

"You fucking—" Garcia shrieks, finally taking a step forward and rolling her shoulder back into its socket.  _Holy shit_ , Pete realizes, _I dislocated it_.

Pete pushes Patrick behind him, and the hunter squeaks adorably, not resisting.  Dallon rushes them, and Pete swings up with the stake, but he moves to the side at the last second and Pete misses his heart.  Dallon stumbles and reaches out to bring Pete down to the floor with him, snarling.  Pete snaps at Dallon's neck, cursing the Dandy's long arms for keeping his out of reach.  He knocks at the stake lodged in Dallon's chest with his knee and he howls in pain, spitting blood.  The Dandy flips them over until he's looming over Pete, teeth bared.  "You're going to fucking pay for killing Carden," Dallon threatens, eyes black.

Pete is going to reply until he hears Patrick let out a panicked "Get away from me!" and he twists his head to see him being cornered against the big floor-to-ceiling windows that line the hall.

It seems to happen in slow motion that Garcia takes Patrick by his jacket, twisting her hands for a better grip on the material, and spins once, gaining momentum to fling him away from her—and right towards the window.  Pete watches in horror as Patrick crashes through the glass, glittering diamond shards tinkling past each other, and starts his plummet to the ground below.

The next few events all happen within the span of a second.

Pete feels a surge of something electric in his muscles and he throws Dallon off him, pulling out the stake as he goes.

He rushes to his feet, sprinting for the window, and snaps the weapon in Garcia's direction, knowing without looking that it hits the mark and reduces her to ash.

And then Pete jumps out of the window.

He reaches out for Patrick, curling his body around the other man, and twisting in the air so that he's beneath him.  Their wide eyes meet for one breathless second before time returns to its normal speed and they're falling, falling, falling—

And then there's the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I sure am good at these cliff hanger things aren't I. What do you think is going to happen to them? Will Dallon get away? Tell me what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Okay, I didn't plan most of this and it just sorta happened but...I think I like where this story is going better than what I had originally planned. Enjoy!

 

Pete feels things crack and break and shatter all up along his back, in his arms and legs, something splintering in his skull. Blood. Blood everywhere. And now the pain comes, nearly as excruciating as when he was turning. He can't think for the haze of agony.

Faintly, as if noticing it through another person, as if it's not quite there, he registers movement above him. Something buzzes in his ears. Pressure—on his chest? Are his eyes even open? Is he dead? Dying, surely.

Then the fresh scent of blood from somewhere on his left. Somewhere nearby. Blood that isn't his. Blood that's human. _Blood._

He discovers that his eyes were, in fact, closed when he opens them to discover another set of eyes—bluegreenbrown—staring terrified into his own. The rest of the face comes into fuzzy focus, hair plastered to a pale face with blood and sweat. _Patrick_ , Pete thinks faintly. The younger man's mouth is moving, but there's no sound coming out. Or maybe Pete just can't hear him?

He's so tired.

Pete feels a hand on his face, cupping his cheek, and he thinks Patrick might be crying but that would be crazy why would he do that? Finally he's able to make out a word Patrick's mouthing.

_Pete,_ he says, over and over. _Pete, Pete, Pete._

_I am not dying here,_ Pete decides, and forces his body to work, his ears to hear. He needs to move he needs—

"Pete." The word is a strangled whisper on Patrick's breath.

Pete wheezes in return, trying to say Patrick's name back and failing.

"Shh," Patrick hushes him.  "No it's—you'll be fine."  He's lying, Pete knows.

Against his will, Pete finds his hand crawling towards Patrick's; he curls his fingers loosely around the other man's. He bares his teeth, opening and closing his mouth.

Patrick pales even more than he already has—he almost looks like a vampire himself. "Pete..." he croaks. "I—I can't. I can't do that for you."

He reaches out with his hand to cradle the back of Pete's head, grimacing at the slick blood beneath his fingertips. Pete's mouth opens in soundless pain as Patrick pulls his other hand away and slides it under Pete's broken body. "I'm so sorry," Patrick murmurs, glancing up at the window they'd fallen from. "I have to move you. We have to get out of the open. They could come after us."

_There's only one left_ , Pete thinks, but it doesn't matter because he's right. Dallon is severely wounded and will need blood—and Patrick's the closest human to him, plus he's pissed at them. They need to get out of here.

Pete tries to move his head to look at Patrick, to make sure he's okay, but he finds the movement impossible. He strains his eyes trying to take in the hunter's state.

Patrick actually looks...okay. Bloodied and scraped and bruised, but Pete obviously saved his life by taking the fall like he did. Patrick winces as he kneels by Pete's side, his left leg skidding out from underneath him as he hurries to get his weight off it. Alright, so maybe he isn't completely okay, but he's alive and not hurt too badly, which is a victory in Pete's book.

He's even able to pick Pete up off the ground, stumbling into a nearby alley between buildings. Patrick sets Pete down as gently as he can, but that's still not careful enough to prevent the sharp spike of pain that starts in Pete's spine and cracks like lightning throughout his whole body. He whimpers, unable to find the strength for more noise than that.

"Pete," Patrick whispers again, hands hovering uselessly over his body. "Pete. I don't know what to do."

Pete feels something crumbling inside his mind and knows he's dying. He chokes on Patrick's name. "Pa–rick..."

And now Patrick _is_ crying, which Pete doesn't understand. He hardly knows him. Honestly he should be glad to get rid of him.

Pete finds himself staring at the bob of Patrick's throat as he swallows, the quick pulse under his smooth skin. So close. So far. He forces himself to look away because no. He's not doing that to him.

"I don't— _Pete_ ," Patrick says helplessly. He stands and paces back and forth a few times restlessly, then stops and looks down at Pete with a determined expression. "You promised you didn't want to hurt me," he reminds him shakily. "You better—you better keep that promise. Cause I'm not letting you die on me." He lowers himself to the ground, pulling Pete into a sitting position as carefully as he can, and pulls at the collar of his jacket. "You promised," Patrick repeats, more to himself than anything.

Pete finally finds the strength to speak, because if Patrick does this—if he puts Pete that close to his neck and looks at him with those eyes and pleads with those lips—he's not going to be able to stop himself. "No," he rasps, a whisper of a whisper. "No."

Patrick nods frantically. "Pete, you saved my life I can't let you—you have to live. Pete please. I can't—I can't let anyone else get hurt because of me."

_Don't do it_ , Pete tells himself, but he's unable to help it when Patrick presses his face to his neck and takes a shaky breath. The pulse beneath his skin is erratic and terrified, and Pete slips over to the vespertilio state, giving into the bloodlust, without a second thought. He presses sweet kisses to Patrick's neck to try to calm him down, working his mouth on his skin, sucking gently. Pete feels him relax marginally...and then he bites.

Patrick practically _screams_ , shoving a fist in his mouth at the last second to muffle the sound. Pete ignores him, too distracted by thoughts of the warm thick beautiful _delicious_ blood pumping into his body. Within a few seconds his venom starts to kick in, and Patrick slumps over, falling to the ground with Pete on top of him. Pete shifts so one of his knees slides between Patrick's thighs, forearms pressed to the concrete on either side of his head. Their chests brush each other.

Something sad and terrified slips into Pete's brain from Patrick, but it's outweighed by hope and _maybe_ s.

Pete feels his bones pop into place and his muscles knit together. He feels his stomach fill with warm blood. He feels alive and wonderful and powerful.

He feels Patrick shudder beneath him.

_You promised._

Pete makes a noise of displeasure and pulls his fangs from Patrick's throat, licking softly to heal the wound. The younger man is trembling. _He's afraid_ , Pete thinks numbly. _Afraid of me._

Patrick gasps, looking wrecked and beautiful, and Pete can't help himself when he dips his head back down to kiss his jaw, tender and sweet, lips dangerously close to the corner of Patrick's mouth. Pete leaves a messy smear of Patrick's own blood on his chin, but he couldn't care less. Pulling back, he fully expects Patrick to shove him away, stab him, shoot him, slap him, or any other number of things. What he does not expect to see is Patrick staring at him with something akin to wonder, pupils wide and blown, lips parted and breathing heavy.

He _definitely_ doesn't expect for Patrick to kiss him back.

Patrick surges upwards, capturing Pete's mouth with his own, pulling at his bottom lip to force Pete to lower his head again. He goes willingly. Patrick sighs against his mouth, pure sin, and Pete feels dizzy. Dizzy with—with something he's not sure he can name.

Patrick presses his hips up into Pete's, rocking gently and—oh. They might both be kinda—very—well...hard. This isn't anything new, becoming aroused when feeding, but it's never—it's never been like this. It's never been _Patrick_. Pete shivers, suddenly coming back to himself, although Patrick's plump mouth threatens to pull him back under again. He's making out with Patrick. A vampire hunter. On the _ground._

"Patrick," Pete murmurs, when the red-blond tried to follow him again. "Patrick wait. No. You don't want this. Stop." It's the hardest thing he's ever done, keeping himself from continuing to kiss him, and the pathetic keening noise Patrick makes nearly has him giving in all over again.

But Pete pushes himself off, falling to the side and rolling limply onto his back. He groans. Patrick's breathing starts to return to normal.  Pete waits for him to blow up in his face—maybe he'll stab him _this_ time?

"I'm sorry," Pete rasps. God, he's so turned on. "I'm sorry."

Patrick grunts as he pulls himself up into a sitting position. "It's—I'm not mad." His voice is husky and dark.

Pete swallows. "I—I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

Patrick's mouth twists into the tiniest of smiles. "You stopped yourself, didn't you? I don't know of any other vampires who would have done that."

"How many other vampires do you know?" Pete points out.

"Touché," Patrick replies, doing that thing where something isn't funny enough to warrant a laugh so you just huff out all your air through your nose instead.

Pete sits up, smiling softly at him.

"Still," Patrick says, quieter. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Pete tugs at the cuff of his sleeve, shifting to hopefully be more comfortable because his pants really aren't fitting right now. "I just—shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that. I mean, just because I'm gay doesn't mean. I mean. You're not, right? Sorry. You don't have to answer. But either way. I'm sorry." _Oh my god shut the fuck up._

"No," Patrick agrees vaguely. "I'm not gay. And I'm not mad."

Pete makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat. "Sorry," he repeats.

"We nailed two vamps didn't we?" Patrick says. "The night wasn't a waste. Don't worry about it."

Pete bites back another _sorry_ and clambers to his feet, adjusting—and cursing—his skinny jeans and holding out his hand.  Patrick takes it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.  "Oh," he breathes, putting a heavy hand on Pete's shoulder as he sways.

"Are you okay?" Pete asks, worried.  Somehow his left hand finds its way to Patrick's waist— _to steady him,_ he tells himself—and the other to brush against the skin on his neck with the backs of his fingers, checking for lingering wounds.

"Yeah I'm just—dizzy," Patrick replies faintly.  Pete tries to convince himself that Patrick is leaning into his touch because he needs the support.  Not because—because he actually _likes_ it or anything.  It wouldn't make sense anyway.  Besides.  He told Pete himself he's not gay.  Not that that...has anything to do with it.

Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  After a few seconds he takes a step away.  "Thanks."

"Yeah."  Pete shoves his hands in his pockets, away from Patrick's skin and the temptation to touch it again, and tries to ignore his hard-on, focusing on very non-sexual thoughts like the gravel ground into his palm or the sound of running.  It works—kind of.  "So what now?"

Patrick rubs his arms and pulls up the zipper on his jacket a little higher even though the air is warm; it's probably the blood loss.  "We need to go after that other one.  The tall one."

"Dallon," Pete supplies.

"Yes."  Patrick looks surprised but doesn't say anything.  "Otherwise he'll just tell the rest of the Dandies what happened and then they'll be all over our asses."

Suddenly Pete thinks of Brendon and how he'd said he'd kill him if he ever saw him again.  Yeah.  They should find Dallon.  "Okay.  Lead the way."  Pete gives an overdramatic sweep of his arm, indicating for Patrick to go ahead.

The younger man smiles and takes a step, but has to stop when he almost falls over, grabbing wildly for Pete again.  " _Fuck_ ," he breathes, scrunching closed his eyes and opening them wide, blinking a few times.

"Patrick?" Pete asks, timid.

"I'm still not—I'll be fine in a second."  Patrick brings up his hand to rub at his neck.  Although he tries to play it off as scratching an itch, Pete still shrinks away from him.

"I'm sorry," he mutters.  "I shouldn't have—there had to be something else—"

"Just stop it," Patrick snaps, and Pete does, stunned into silence.  "It's not your fault.  It's not.  It's just that I, like—it's not your fault, okay Pete?  I don't regret that.  I'm just."  He breathes harshly through his nose.  "I'm just fucked up and I've like, I've seen things and.  And bad things have happened and just."  He laughs, shaky and with self-pity.  "I'm a fucking mess."

He reaches up to rub his eye, and Pete catches sight of his wrist again, the scars there that he'd noticed before, peeking out from the cuff of his hoodie.  And they're not—Patrick didn't do that to himself.  Pete knows it.  He's too jumpy around and spiteful towards vampires and the wounds are too bite-shaped for that.

"So am I," Pete offers.  "I'm fucked up in all sorts of ways."

Patrick's smile is the saddest thing Pete's ever seen, and he looks at himself in the mirror every day.  "I guess we'll just have to be fucked up together, huh."

Pete shrugs.  "Seems that way."

Patrick takes a breath, and Pete thinks he's going to keep going, say something else about his life or his feelings, so he's supremely disappointed when all he says is, "I guess we should try to go after Dallon now."

Why Pete wants to get to know Patrick so badly is beyond him, but he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind to mull over one day while waiting for the sun to pass, and nods.  "Before the trail gets any colder."

Obviously, Dallon is gone when they go back to look for him, Pete keeping an eye on Patrick to make sure he's really as okay as he says he is. It's just a blood-splattered floor and glinting glass shards. Embedded in the wall, behind where Pete had thrown it through Garcia, is Patrick's wooden stake. The hunter can't get it back out, hands sliding on the still-slick blood, the wood buried several inches. Pete huffs out a laugh and places his hand over Patrick's, pulling out the weapon with ease. "Thanks," Patrick mumbles, shoving it back in his jacket.

"No problem," Pete returns, looking back around the room. "Well, you sure knew where to go to find your Dandies, didn't you?"

Patrick frowns, wiping his hands on his pants. "See, that's the thing. I'd heard they'd be in the area. _Maybe_. Not that they'd be hiding out in the building. It's almost like they knew we were coming..." he trails off, a worried look on his face.

"You don't think," Pete says slowly, "that you have a mole, do you?"

Patrick shakes his head firmly. "No. I trust my team. It's the other agencies I'm not so sure about."

"What do you mean?"

"There's this agency, literally called Trigger Happy Hunting Agency, all too willing to kill things...and people. They're not too concerned with civilians that get caught up in the crossfire."

"That's—really?"

"Yeah," Patrick confirms grimly. "And no one was ever able to prove it, but we're all pretty sure they took vampire money a couple of years ago, paid off to not hunt them. That's when things got really bad." His expression goes cloudy. "Lots of people got killed. Lots more got turned."

"A couple years ago?" Pete asks casually, although he's focused with laser-sharpness on Patrick's next words.

"Yeah," Patrick shrugs. "Maybe two and a half? It was about when Urie was turned, as far as we can tell. We're thinking that THHA was part of the reason for that. If it hadn't been for them," he continues bitterly, "we might not have had to deal with that fucker."

Pete feels like times has stopped. Is the whole reason he was turned because some corrupted hunting agency couldn't keep a handle on the vampire population? He feels faint. God. All his life he's been dealing with shitty circumstances, and here's another. Fuck. If they'd just—like, he doesn't know, _not taken a bribe from monsters_ he could be living a normal life. He feels sick.

"Pete?" Patrick asks cautiously. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah." Not even Pete believes it.

"Pete—"

"Are they—do they still do it?" Pete interrupts.

Patrick pauses.  "Uh, no.  Around that time one of their members got attacked, I think.  They realized how much they'd fucked up and...that was that."

Pete feels bile rising in his throat.  "Do you...you wouldn't happen to know who it was?  Who got attacked?"

Patrick gives him a wary look.  "Uh, I'm not really sure, but I think his name was like...Jared or something?"

"Gerard?" Pete whispers, his air sliding guiltily past his lips, chafing his words until they're nothing but a rasp.

"Maybe," Patrick agrees.

"What hap—what happened to him?" Pete demands.

Patrick looks surprised by Pete's sudden intensity, and he takes a step back.  "I don't know, Pete.  It's not my hunting agency."

"Did he die?" Pete presses, desperate.

"I don't _know_ ," Patrick snaps back.  "I told you that."

_You caused all sorts of trouble,_ something means taunts the back of Pete's brain.  _Somehow it's all your fault._

"...Pete?"

"Right, yeah.  Sucks for them," Pete says, too-quick, and the look Patrick gives him is too shrewd for his liking.  It's interrupted by a yawn, and all of Pete's attention focuses instantly on Patrick with laser-sharpness.  "Are you tired?"

"I'm fine."  Patrick waves away the question, but his jaw creaks open in another yawn.

"When did you last sleep?" Pete frets.

Patrick shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets.  "I took a nap this morning."

"You don't get much sleep, do you."  It's not really a question.

Patrick answers anyway.  "Nope.  It's worth it though.  To know I'm helping people."

"Maybe we should call it a night," Pete murmurs.  "So you can rest."  _And so you can mull thugs over and hate yourself even more._

Patrick snorts.  "Thanks for the sentiment, but I'm really—I'm—" he yawns again, and his cheeks are tinted pink.  "I don't understand.  I'm not usually this tired."

"You did just donate your blood," Pete points out.

Patrick fights back another yawn.  "That's true, I guess," he admits.

It's Pete's turn to snort.  "You guess?  C'mon dude, you gotta go to bed."

Patrick gives one last attempt at fighting off Pete.  Glancing down at his watch—which Pete hadn't noticed before...where did that come from?—he protests, "But it's only like twelve thirty."

"Yes.  It's tomorrow.  Too late for little 'Trick to be out of bed."  Pete's grin quickly morphs into a look of horror.  "Oh my god, I'm so sorry.  I didn't—I don't know where that came from—I'm—"

Patrick chuckles.  "Maybe we both need to sleep."

Pete thinks of the way he hasn't let himself sleep—or whatever equivalent he's capable of—in over two years and smiles a sad smile to himself.  "Maybe."

"It's too bad we couldn't catch Dallon, too," Patrick sighs, giving the place a last once-over before beginning his decent down the stairwell.

"Yeah," Pete agrees softly.  All he can think of is the way Dallon is going to go back and tell Beckett and Brendon and the rest of the Dandies that he's alive and working with humans against them and how he's not going to last like this.  He tries not to think about it.

Turns out Patrick has a car, and Pete slides into shotgun without a word.  He escorts Patrick back as close to SCHA as he dares.  They stop a few blocks away, Patrick cutting the engine with a twist of his wrist.  They sit in silence for a few seconds before Pete makes as if to leave the car.  "I should get going," he mutters.

"Wait."  Patrick pins him to his seat with a single word, a single syllable, a single breath.  "Pete I—I wanted to say that.  Look, I'm really glad you came with me tonight, cause if you hadn't been there I—just—thank you."  The whole time he stares at his hands on the steering wheel, white-knuckled.  "I don't know why you—why you are who you are, why you're so easy to fall—trust.  But.  I'm glad that we met.  And.  Just."  He finally finally looks over at Pete, hands slipping from the steering wheel as he shifts his whole body over to the passenger side, halfway falling on Pete as he wraps his arms around him.  "Thank you," he whispers into his neck, heartfelt and emotional and altogether too much, "for being who I thought you could be."

Even though he can't cry, Pete feels his throat close off and something burn in his eyes like he's going to.  He just nods gently, surprised by the sudden show of emotion.  He doesn't say anything, instead just waiting for Patrick to pull away and wipe at his nose.  "Thanks, Pete," he says again, in a small voice.

"Thank _you_ ," Pete returns, "for giving me a chance.  And like, you know, not killing me.  That was nice too."

Patrick laughs, scratching at the hair peeking out from beneath his hat.  "Yeah, I'm glad I decided not to do that."

Pete looks at the clock on the dash—it's nearly one.  "You should go try to get some sleep," he murmurs.

Patrick is quiet for a moment.  Very quiet.  Pete is afraid he's said something wrong until he sniffs, wiping his nose again.  "No one else..." he begins, "no one else is as concerned for my health as you and I've only known you for like, a week."

"Oh, I—"

"It's nice," Patrick cuts him off.  "Thank you.  Again."

"Um.  You're welcome."  Pete doesn't think he could get any more awkward if he tried.  He reaches for the handle of the door, but it doesn't open.

"Oh.  Sorry."  Patrick unlocks the car.  "See you around, Pete."

"Bye Patrick," Pete says, just to feel his name on his tongue.  He gives a soft "goodnight" before slipping out of the car into the night.

Pete almost goes straight back to his apartment until he realizes he won't be alone there.  He needs some time to stew over what he's been told tonight, so what he actually ends up doing is breaking into the building directly opposite SCHA to watch—definitely not creepily—as Patrick does everything _except_ go to sleep.  He does paperwork and talks to people and organizes things until nearly three.

"Patrick," Pete whispers, frustrated.  " _Go to sleep, please._ "  He doesn't notice the bit of compel that slips into his voice.

To his surprise, Patrick starts and looks around like he heard him, saying something to the other person hanging out by the front desk.  They nod and head around the desk, where Patrick gives up his chair to them.  He walks up to the windows at the front of the building, and although Pete can't hear him he sees how his mouth forms the word, _Pete?_

Pete stares.  He hadn't actually... _heard_ him, had he?

" _Patrick_."

Patrick's eyes widen.  _How?_

" _I don't know,_ " Pete replies.  But he has an idea.  He's not trying to get Patrick to do anything, not by force, but he's still relaying his thoughts over into his mind through his compel.  This could be useful.  " _But please go to sleep.  You need it_."

Patrick shakes his head, but is cut off by another yawn.  He blushes faintly.  _Okay_ , he mouths, and then turns and, with another word to the person at the front desk, disappears into the back of the building.  Pete smiles after him.

Without Patrick to watch, though, Pete's thoughts catch up to him.

Thoughts about how everything shitty that's happened to him is a result of corruption, about how the Dandies are certainly going to come after him now, about how he manages to fuck literally everything up.  Thoughts about Patrick.

_Maybe it's not so bad_ , a small hopeful something thinks tentatively.  _You got to meet him.  You got to kiss him.  You get to see him again._

Pete shakes his head and sinks to the floor.  Patrick is great, but he shouldn't be enough to offset everything else that has happened to him.  Even though...he kind of is.  Pete mulls it over and day dreams for almost two more hours, until he realizes that it's got to be close to five, and, fuck, the sun will be coming up soon.

He launches himself off the floor and sprints out of the building, faster than he's ever moved before.  "Fucking fuck shit," he whispers to himself.  Panic sparks somewhere in his stomach.  The sky is already graying, turning purple at the edges, and his skin feels tight and uncomfortable.

He sees his fingertips start to steam just as his building comes into sight, and he gives one last burst of speed and dives through the front door and slams it shut behind him, still running as he climbs the stairs up to his apartment.  Pete doesn't slow until he reaches his hallway, pushing down on the fear bubbling in his chest.  He's fine now.  The sun is up and he's inside and everything is okay and—

And a scream rips it's way out of the apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think happened? Is something awful going to occur? Will the fact that Dallon got away be bad news in the future? And what did you think of the Peterick kiss? Leave comments! :)
> 
> Also, I had to look up how long it takes for an erection to go away on it's own for this chapter and let me tell you that is something I never expected to Google.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't really turn out like I visioned it in my head ack. But at least I get the satisfaction of not resolving the last cliff hanger for you guys. *evil author vibes* Enjoy!

When Dallon comes crashing into his office, blood from a recent meal still dripping down his chin and staining his tie, Brendon looks up from his paperwork and frowns.

"You're not going to believe this," Dallon growls.

"Did you kill her?" Brendon asks softly, ignoring the Dandy's proclamation.

Dallon pulls up short, one hand on the back of the chair facing Brendon's desk. "What?"

"Don't act stupid, Weekes," Brendon snaps, patience practically nonexistent.  "The girl.  Did you kill her?"

"I—" Dallon flounders.

"That you fed from," Brendon adds.  "Good god, are you really this fucking stupid?"

Dallon bristles.  "No.  I'm not that fucking stupid, cause I didn't fucking kill her.  Who do you think I am?"

Brendon levels the other vampire with a glare that has him shrinking back in fear.  "I—I'm sorry."

Brendon rolls his eyes.  "Don't apologize.  It makes you seem incompetent."

Dallon grits his teeth and stiffly lowers himself into the chair.  "I have news."

"Because, you know," Brendon goes on, once again disregarding Dallon's words, "as fun as it may be to kill the humans, we don't need them on our asses any more than they already are.  We're trying to work things out with them, remember?  Not fuck them up.  We have things we're trying to get done."

"Yes," Dallon agrees, impatience badly hidden, "but there's something I really think you should know."

"You seem on edge, Weekes," Brendon says smoothly.  "Relax."  He loves fucking with the underlings.

Dallon nods reluctantly, and leans back in the chair, clearly uncomfortable.  There's a beat.

"Well, go on," Brendon prompts lazily.

Dallon takes a breath.  "Something happened tonight.  Someone—they.  There was a hunter, and...and..." he trails off, looking confused and frustrated.

"Hunters really aren't big news," Brendon says calmly, but the words are laced with warning.  _Don't waste my time,_ they say.

"Yes, well—I—"  Dallon almost looks scared, like he knows what's coming.  "I don't—what was I saying?"

Brendon is out of his chair and yanking up on the front of Dallon's dress shirt before he can so much as blink.  "Don't fuck with me," he hisses, jerking the taller vampire down to his height.  "I don't have time for bullshit."

"Please," Dallon begs, eyes wide and voice broken.  "Please don't hurt me.  I'll do anything.  I don't know why I'm here, I swear to god.  I don't remember!"

Brendon looks deep into Dallon's eyes, searching.  There's truth there, and something else he can't quite name.

A sudden flash behind his eyelids, a scene from another lifetime pushing its way to the forefront of his brain.  In the past years, Brendon's come to realize what these visions are.  They're memories, from the line of vampires leading down to him, stretching back millennium and getting murkier as they go.  They come from vampires themselves, and the faint echoes the predators get from their prey, the memories that slip in with human blood.

He was in a nearly identical situation, although instead of his hands fisted in the vampire's shirt they were squeezing his neck.  "What do you mean, 'you do not remember'?" he hissed in a voice that was not his own, but instead lilting and feminine.

The vampire he had by the neck in his memory wriggled uncomfortably.  "I mean," he rasped, nearly unable to speak past his grip, "that I do not remember.  It is as though the memories are there but—I cannot get to them and—please—"

Brendon didn't let him reply, instead raising his other hand to push back at the vampire's lips and yank his jaw open.  The vampire flinched away—or tried to—and only succeeded in sparking another flare of anger in Brendon's belly.  He shoved him against the wall as he writhed under his fingers, pressed painfully into his gums.  Drawing back a fist, Brendon socked him in the mouth, precise and deadly, and the vampire _screamed._

He could feel it—the way the vampire's teeth gave and knocked aside and pulled from his gums.  Brendon didn't hesitate before pulling at his fangs, removing them completely.

"No," the vampire blubbered, lisping slightly.  "No, please, no.  No, oh god, no.  _No._   Not this."

"Too late," Brendon heard his other self say, cold.  "You have a few days."  He has effectively killed him—without a way to feed, the vampire will be dead within the week.  Fangs don't grow back.  "You should know better than to familarize yourself with _him_."

"I do not know what you are talking about," the vampire promised, collapsing to the ground.  He brought his hand up to his bloodied mouth, gingerly pressing his fingers to his gums, as if unable believe what had just happened to him.  The bleeding didn't stop quickly, didn't heal like it should.

"Lies," Brendon's other self argued.

The vampire from the memory finally took his hand away from his face, tongue poking gingerly at the places where his fangs used to be.  "You have killed me," he rasped, defeated.

"It is only what you deserve," Brendon retorted.  "He is not someone we associate ourselves with."

"I swear to..." and his words fade out.

Pulled back into the present, Brendon blinks once.  Dallon still looks terrified, and even though he's so much taller than Brendon he seems short, drawn in on himself.  His fangs still glint dully from his mouth. "I swear to god," Dallon chokes.  "Please don't hurt me."

Brendon releases his grip on Dallon's shirt.  "Get the fuck away from me."

Relieved to escape unharmed, Dallon is out of the room instantly, the door slamming shut behind him. Brendon flashes back to his desk, easing down in the soft leather of his chair within a quick second. Of course _he_ would interfere. Unconsciously, Brendon's lips curl back in a snarl.

Without warning, the voices in the back of Brendon's mind, the ones he pushes down and suppresses to keep them from driving him mad, surge upward, crying out. A choked-off whimper squeezes from past Brendon's clenched jaw. _Go away_ , he thinks furiously. But they're insistent, pushing past his blocks and resistance, a cacophony of noise and voices and images that threaten to overwhelm him.

He can feel them spiraling down into a single thought, turning into a name, an image. It's not fast enough for his liking—the intrusion pushes at the inside of his skull, throbbing pain and stabbing bursts of light. There are too many thoughts for one head. They swirl down and together then break apart again, condensing down into a heavy thought that rests painfully in the center of Brendon's head, pushing at his brains and his nasal cavities with immense pressure. Brendon's head dips down towards the desk and he screws his eyes shut, trying to focus on what he's being told but at the same time—it's too much for him. Too much.

His eyes fly open after a particularly awful spike of pain, and he's surprised to see the drops of blood on his paperwork. He raises a trembling hand up to his nose, brings it away red. Brendon stops fighting it.

But now there's another intrusion to his head, something powerful and ancient shoving the memories down—and succeeding. "No," Brendon gasps, actively fighting against it now. "I need to know—I need—"

"Urie?" snaps a voice, commanding. "What the fuck happened? And what the fuck is happen _ing_?"

As quickly as he can—which is actually painfully slowly—Brendon lifts his head to meet Beckett's eyes. He grins crookedly, knowing that the blood dripping from his nose makes him quite the sight. "Weekes—had blocked memories and—" he breaks off to groan in pain, his vision going dark around the edges "and I'm looking—I'm getting answers."

"That's not much of an answer," Beckett says coolly, but his eyes betray his true fear. He's never understood what goes on in Brendon's head, is terrified that one day his second will turn on him. He barely has control over him as it is, and that's only because he and Brendon have mostly the same objective. It was Brendon's idea to go to the police, to try and take over there. Beckett wanted— _wants_ —nothing to do with it.

Brendon doesn't reply, crying out and falling out of his chair with the intensity of the agony. Beckett doesn't flinch, doesn't make a move to help him. As expected.

All of the thoughts and images and memories all crescendo into something too much and too loud and too bright, expanding past what Brendon can bear into something he has to, and they beat at the inside of his skull with growing intensity, crashing into his own thoughts and trampling them down, and they just swirl larger and louder and—and—and then suddenly they all implode into a single point, simmering down into one image and all Brendon can think is—

" _You,_ " he breathes, straightening.

Beckett looks confused. "Me?"

"Shut up," Brendon snaps, wiping away the blood on his face with the back of his hand. "No, I'm not fucking talking to you."

Beckett flinches, nearly imperceptibly. "Don't tell me to—"

"I'm going to tell you to do whatever the goddam hell I want you to do," Brendon growls. "So shut up. I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to _him_."

Beckett, jaw clenched, turns to see who Brendon is talking about, and now he flinches away and doesn't even try to hide it. "You," he hisses. "You are not welcome here."

The Priest steps forward, hands folded neatly in front of him, wrongly-colored eyes narrowed. "I do not much care for your opinion, Beckett."

"What do you want?" Beckett demands, holding his ground as the Priest approaches him.

"From you?" The Priest sounds amused. "Nothing." He turns his gaze to Brendon. "I need to speak with your second. Alone."

Anger bubbles just under the surface of Beckett's skin. "Do what you need and then leave, do you understand? I don't want to see you back here."

The Priest laughs a parchment-paper laugh. "You are not in the position to be making demands here." His expression turns more serious. "Now leave us."

Beckett is practically steaming from the ears when he stalks from the room.

The Priest turns to Brendon, but the younger vampire speaks before he has a chance to. "What are you doing here?"

"I have come to right wrongs."

Brendon grits his teeth. "Why did you take away Weekes' memories?"

"There are things that you are not ready for, that you should not know."

"Bullshit."

The Priest gives Brendon a careful look. "Why do you let him control you?"

"Don't fucking change the subject on me!" Brendon warns, bristling.

"He is a monster," the Priest continues softly. "One that you would be better off without. The whole city would. Beckett brings nothing but pain."

"Beckett is in charge," Brendon retorts.

"You do not act like it."

Brendon forces his racing thoughts to slow, pushing his other memories back down. "Are you telling me to kill him?"

"I am not telling you to do anything," the Priest replies maddeningly. "Just that only terrible things will come from that man."

"I still need him," Brendon protests.

The Priest lifts one shoulder gracefully.

"What was Weekes going to tell me?" Brendon presses, moving closer to the much older vampire, trying to appear threatening—and not much succeeding. The Priest isn't one to be easily threatened. "Something about a hunter."

The Priest's hard-to-read eyes go dark. "You need to leave that man alone."

Brendon takes an eager step forward. "Who?"

"Do you really think I would tell you that?"

" _Tell me_ ," Brendon demands, putting all of his force behind the words.

The Priest chuckles, and his red eyes search over Brendon's face in amusement. "No."

"Tell me!"

There's a moment of judgmental silence. "It would not do you good to drag up memories you have tried so hard to repress."

"I drag them up whenever the hell I need them," Brendon argues. The Priest is the only other vampire who knows about the voices in his head; he'd told him when he'd first been turned.

"I meant _your_ memories, Brendon," the Priest returns. "Not others'."

Making a frustrated noise, Brendon stalks back to his desk and sits. "Why did you even come if you're not going to give me answers? It's been pointless and—fuck." When he turns back around the Priest is gone. "Fuck you!" he shouts to the empty room, emotional and compromised. He's been feeling more and more unstable lately. Brendon slams his fist down on the desk, cracking it in two, and growls.

What the fuck was that? That bastard can't just come in and tell him what to do! Sure, Brendon does plan to eventually off Beckett—other than his use running out he's just an annoying little shit—but he can still use him. No. He's not going to kill Beckett. Not yet.

* * *

The quiet chatter of the lobby is immediately silenced when Brendon glides through it. He approaches one of the newer vampires, one of the few women that Beckett has deemed usable—at least as a Dandy.

"Where is he," Brendon asks her, quiet, deadly. The Dandy she had been talking to takes a cautious step back. Good. He wants them to be afraid of him.

Her eyes go wide. "Where—who?"

Brendon bares his teeth. "Your little boyfriend. I need him."

She sucks in a reflexive breath. "D-Dallon?"

"Yes," Brendon says, impatience growing. "I need something from him."

"I—I don't," she falters. "Last I saw him he was heading back from your office, and then he was on the other side of the lobby and—please," she gasps when Brendon's hand twitches. "I don't know."

"I'm really fucking tired of people telling me that," Brendon snaps. He turns on the rest of the room. "Someone bring me Weekes," he demands. When no one moves, he adds, "Now." At least three Dandies blur away in search of the tall vampire, and Brendon faces the girl again.

She swallows. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Be more useful next time," Brendon replies threateningly.

"Sir," someone says tentatively from behind him. "He's here."

Brendon smiles cruelly, looking over his shoulder. "There you are, Weekes. I have a favor to ask of you."

Dallon tries for indifference but only succeeds in looking terrified.  "Whatever you need."

Brendon lifts his right hand to Dallon's face, resting the pads of his fingers on his cheek. "Good," Brendon whispers, and the room is so quiet it might actually be sucking sound away. Slowly, slowly, Brendon brushes his fingers down the side of Dallon's face, tracing his jaw and catching his chin between his fingertips. He looks straight into the Dandy's eyes. "Because I need something from you."

Dallon visibly swallows. "What do I have to do?"

Brendon hums thoughtfully, fully aware of the several sets of eyes on him. "Nothing, really. Just—hold still." As he says the last part he jerks down on Dallon's chin and brings up his left hand to press his fingers to Dallon's temple, still staring intently in his eyes.

"What are you—" he squeaks.

"Sh-shh," Brendon hushes him, almost gently. "I said don't move _._ " Dallon freezes, although his wide eyes still give away his fear.

Brendon frowns slightly, pushing his mind forward, and—there he is. " _Tell me what happened tonight_ ," he says.

Dallon quivers under his touch. "I don't—I don't remember," he whispers.

" _You said something about a hunter, and someone who was with them_ ," Brendon prompts, pressing his fingers harder into Dallon's face, squeezing the soft flesh. " _Tell me._ "

"I—I don't. I— _gah!_ " he cries, legs threatening to give way as Brendon forces his mind upon his own. The pain exploding behind his eyes is excruciating, a fireworks display of hurt. Brendon can feel the weak fight he puts up, the _keep out go away keep out no no keep out_ swirling at the front of Dallon's consciousness, slowly beaten back and down and out of the way by Brendon's relentless charge forward.

Mouth gaping like an asphyxiating fish, Dallon's legs buckle, and Brendon eases him down to the floor, never once breaking eye contact. " _I know you can do it_ ," Brendon murmurs, almost gentle. Around them, the presence of the other Dandies who are unable to tear their eyes away fades, Brendon only focusing on the mind he's trying to break into.

Dallon makes a choking sound, stiff and rigid on his knees. A thin line of blood starts to trickle from his nose, deep dark red soon joined by the other nostril. Scarlet pools in one of his ears and starts to drip down his neck. Brendon leans over him. " _Tell me_ ," he repeats, hissing. " _It's in there somewhere_." _And if it wasn't important then the Priest wouldn't have bothered keeping it from me_ , he thinks. _I_ need _to know._

"Please," comes the girl's voice. Brendon hears her take a faltering step forward, then another. "You're hurting him."

Brendon breaks eye contact with Dallon just long enough to give her a deadly stare. " _Don't take another fucking step,_ " he hisses, voice oddly pitched. She shrinks back, and Brendon notices that the other vampires in the room do as well, trying to get as far away from him as possible without making it too obvious.

Turning back to Dallon, Brendon presses their foreheads together, noses brushing, concentrating with all his might.

Dallon whimpers, the defenses of his mind giving way, and Brendon pushes, past his useless thoughts and personality traits, past his memories, past the faint blood whispers he's gained from feeding. Now that he has a head start, he also barrels right into the wall the Priest had built. He can't quite break through, but—he concentrates harder, fingers tightening on Dallon's jaw until he feels the bone start to give beneath his grip. Brendon stabs and fights his way through Dallon's brain, not caring about the damage he might be causing. He pushes so hard that he feels Dallon's edges start to crumble under his vice-like hold.  He's killing him. Finally, finally, the last lock breaks open and Brendon is flooded with thoughts and sights and sounds, recent and fresh.

Sorting quickly through the new thoughts, Brendon throws away unnecessary information—Carden and Garcia are not losses to be concerned with—until two faces swim into view and he freezes. One of them is new, pretty with ocean eyes and full lips, but it's the other, dark-eyed and dark-haired and dark-thinking, that has Brendon reeling.

He stumbles away from Dallon, fighting to keep his composure, as his repressed memories come surging gleefully out of the recesses of his mind. Dallon collapses to the floor, twitching, and the girl Dandy stutters towards him, as though not sure she's allowed to. Everyone stares at him, whispering so quietly they might as well be mouthing words, but every syllable feels hot in Brendon's ears. The air is tense, like if they weren't so terrified of him they'd be running away.

"He's lucky he just fed," Brendon says absently about Dallon, taking an unsteady step back. He feels eyes tracking him, judging him, and he takes a few running steps and thinks _I need to get out of here_ before he falls to the floor, head pounding. There's an audible gasp from the room around him as he grunts in pain.

And then—a name surfaces with the face, short and simple and clacking in the sharp way it falls off the tongue: _Pete_.

"Holy shit," Brendon breathes. Something wiry twists itself up in his chest, something a lot like panic, and then there's—there's so many things running through his mind, fucking sprinting all over the place, that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

And then there's Pete, a familiar face. A _friend_.

Suppressed emotions crash down over Brendon, nearly choking him. God, why is he so angry all of the time? Who is he? What's happened to him? He feels—sad. And. Regret. So many emotions.

Brendon makes a gasping sound as he pushes himself off the floor. _Pull yourself together_ , he thinks wildly. _You can't let them know anything is different about you just—oh my god, no._

Guilt. He's done—he did something terrible to someone—to someone he cared very much about, who cared very much about him, and—

"Spencer," he chokes, words unintelligible, fingers digging so deeply into the floor that they crack the tile beneath them. "Oh my fucking god, no." Brendon gives up on trying to lift himself from the floor. His best friend—the only person that cared about him after Pete had left. No. _After he'd pushed Pete away._ And. "I fucking killed him," he moans. "I killed him, oh god." His voice cracks over every letter. "He's dead and it's my fault."

 _And now Pete's next,_ something dark urges him. _You know he's alive. You have to take him out. Obviously if he wasn't important that bastard wouldn't have tried to keep him from you. But nothing can stop you, can it?_

"I can stop me," Brendon whispers, then throws back his head when pain rockets through him, his skull hitting the tile with a sickening _crack_. He screams, biting down on his forearm to muffle the sound, teeth piercing skin and muscle and scraping bone. He thinks he hears people talking in the background, though he can't seem to care.

 _Shut up_ , a voice hisses, something deep and sticky and tar-colored in his mind, reaching out through the centuries to grab hold of his consciousness. _You had a plan. Stick to it._ It curls around his brain, fusing into his skull, and Brendon can't move anymore because it hurts. So. Much.

"The plan," Brendon breathes. "Was shit." The... _thing_ rises up, crawls out of the corners of his brain, rakes it's claws through his thoughts.

 _It's a wonderful plan,_ it croons, and Brendon nearly passes out when he realizes—the voice is _his._ He's being fucking split in two.

 _Shh,_ he whispers to himself. _You had your time. It's my turn again._

"No," Brendon gasps.

_You did this to yourself._

"No!"

_Yes._

And then it's grabbing at him with claw-like hands, drags him down into the dark, and he feels himself leaving his body behind, and then he feels nothing.

* * *

When Brendon comes to, he pushes himself off the floor with a crooked smile.

"What the fuck," comes a cold voice, "just happened."

Brendon looks up to see Beckett watching him suspiciously, arms crossed. Several other vampires crowd around him, though they retreat back when they see Brendon moving.

 _You can't let them know anything is different,_ Brendon thinks again, and his face must look as insane as he feels because something scared flickers across Beckett's face. "Nothing," Brendon replies gruffly, shoving his tired and achy body to its feet. The bite mark in his arm is rapidly fading. "Everything's going to plan."

"You just said your plan was shit," Beckett points out, refusing to move out of Brendon's way. "So tell me. What the hell his going on? Why did you fucking pass out on the floor?" He takes a step closer, anger smoldering in the depths of his eyes. "You answer me, Urie, and none of the convoluted bullshit that you usually give me, either."

Brendon licks his lips, tastes the blood there— _when did that happen?_ —and says, " _You really don't need to worry about it._ " Beckett twitches, resisting the compel with his whole being. Brendon can only halfway convince him, something he'd figured out the hard way. Beckett, having been the one to turn him, is not as susceptible to his powers as others. And Brendon can still—occasionally, he's working on it—fall prey to Beckett's own convincing.

" _I really think I do,_ " Beckett returns, glaring and using his height to his full advantage, taking several steps forward until he's leaning over Brendon.  " _So tell me exactly what was going on._ "

" _I told you,_ " Brendon spits.  " _I was getting answers.  It's not my fault hacking into Weekes' brain caused backlash._ "

Beckett leans back, studies Brendon carefully.  "I don't believe you," he murmurs.  Brendon notices that the lobby is now nearly empty, the only other occupants being Dallon and his girlfriend, who is too afraid to move him—he's obviously still in pain.  Everyone else has fled before things get too nasty.  They all know that when Brendon and Beckett fight it can get nasty and tends to ends with one of them—usually Brendon—getting beaten to a pulp.

"I don't fucking care," Brendon returns smoothly.  "Not my problem that you can't accept the truth."

Beckett's lip curls up in a sneer.  "And what did your 'answers' tell you?"

Brendon manages to smile at that, cruel and dark.  "Exactly who has to die next."

"Who might this be?"  Beckett's eyes narrow.

"You might remember him," Brendon says airily.  "He is your son after all.  One you thought dead.  That we both thought dead."

Beckett is silent a moment.  "Peter Wentz."

"Exactly," Brendon breathes.  "He has a little hunter friend—a very pretty young man, actually.  I'm sure that if we get Pete he'll follow, and then we'll have everything we need to know."

"You mean _you'll_ have everything you need—" Beckett retorts, and stops.  His eyes narrow impossibly further.  "The hunter.  What did he look like?"

Of all the things Beckett could have said, this is the farthest from what Brendon had expected.  "Why does it matter?"

"You say he's pretty?  And obviously too trusting of vampires if he's hanging around Peter."  He grins a Cheshire grin.  "I have a feeling I know who he is.  I'd very much like to see him again."

Brendon tilts his head, intrigued by the new information.  "You know it's Patrick Stumph from _that_ description?"  He's heard enough gloating stories from Beckett to know who's he's talking about instantly.  Beckett has always seemed proud of how cruel he could be, the way he lured in that girl—what was her name, Wendy?  Winona?  Something like that—with Patrick following, and how Beckett had just...kept him for himself.

"Well what did he look like?" Beckett asks, verging on the edge of sick excitement.

"Very pale, red-blonde hair," Brendon murmurs, amused.

"And eyes that you don't know what color they are," Beckett finishes.  "Yes.  That's him."

Brendon flashes an easy smile.  Everything is falling into place.  "Then it shouldn't be a problem.  We both get what—or rather, _who_ —we want."

Beckett shrugs, distracted.  "As long as you don't majorly fuck everything up...you can have Pete.  You can keep working on your little pet project.  I have a city to run."  He grins.  "And a hunter to look forward to."

"I have some things to set up first," Brendon informs him.  "So it may take a couple weeks, but if things keep running smoothly it won't feel like very long at all."  He's glad for Beckett's distraction.  He doesn't need any more questions.

Beckett nods, and then grows more serious.  "Keep me informed on what you are doing, Urie," he threatens.  "Just because you have pleased me doesn't mean you are out of the woods just yet."

"Of course," Brendon says graciously, perhaps overdoing it a bit.  "Sir."

Beckett's eyes travel over Brendon's shoulder, where the two Dandies still lie on the floor, the girl with Dallon's head in her lap and his teeth on her arm.  "And clean up your mess.  I don't need unnecessary blood in my building."  With that the conversation's finished, and Beckett walks briskly away.

 _Don't you,_ Brendon thinks bitterly.  _Then what's the basement for?_

He turns on the girl, who stares up at him with fear in her wide eyes.  "Get him out of here," Brendon commands, then looks down at where Dallon sucks greedily at her arm.  "And really?  Out in the open where anyone could see you?  We're not heathens.  We're not Clandestine."

The girl nods and lifts Dallon to his feet, who leans on her as she heads for the exit.  "Sorry sir.  It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Brendon says to their retesting backs, though his mind is already elsewhere.  He doesn't even notice when vampires start to enter the room again.

Yes, everything's still going to plan. The puzzle is nearing completion, and he only has a few more pieces to find and slot nicely away.  The crown is his for the taking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this sucks but school starts tomorrow and I don't know when I'll be able to upload after that cause I don't know how crazy school's going to get (hopefully not too bad the first week or so), but the next chapter is already started so I hope it's not too long before an update! Please tell me what you think and if you have questions then ask away! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm not sure I like how this turned out, but here we go.  I couldn't quite get what was in my head to come out in a way that I liked, so if you have questions about what the heck is happening _please_ ask.  I'm planning on doing a little expositiony chapter next to hopefully clear some stuff up, and I'll answer all your questions there.

****Pete freezes, hand centimeters away from pushing open the door. That scream—definitely feminine. Definitely Zoe. Fuck.

Other shouting joins in—the rest of the vampires living in Pete's apartment. Something crashes to the floor and—shit. Pete finally jerks his body into motion, banging in through the door. There's a deadly golden glow coming from the living room. Pete freezes again. No. It can't be. The sounds of a scuffle carry from the other room, and Pete barely manages to keep himself moving forward. Someone is still screaming He hasn't heard a sound that agonized since he turned—and then, it was coming from his own mouth.

_No. Please. Be okay._

He's such a softie, already so attached to the three vampires crashing at his place, but he couldn't bear it if one of them had gotten caught in the sun. He rounds the corner and—oh god.

Zoe is writhing on the floor, crying and held down by Ray, who brushes her hair out of her face and pulls her into his lap, murmuring softly to her. Ryan stands by the window, where he's snapped closed the blinds and curtains, eyes wide. He looks up as Pete enters, but doesn't say anything, merely sinks to the ground and looks defeated.

Pete swallows and looks over at Zoe, who—who. Who.

She's shaking, body shuddering. Her mouth is half open and the most pitiful of sounds is coming out. But it's her arm that—her arm.

Shiny dust, like glitter or miniature diamonds, litters the floor in a smear, kicked out in an arc by Zoe's flailing feet and Ray's frantic steps. It leads straight to Zoe, where more of it slowly erodes from the stub of her elbow. Pete feels sick. There's no way to—a vampire caught in the sun is as good as dead. The burn spreads over the whole body. Pete's never seen it happen himself, but he knows how these things go.

Zoe curls in close to Ray's body, whimpering, and he tucks her farther into his arms and puts his chin on the top of his head.

"What—happened?" Pete croaks, his voice breaking over every letter. She doesn't deserve this. Not this slow, painful death. Why is his life soaked in tragedy?

Ray shakes his head and squeezes tighter.

"She was waiting for you," Ryan explains dully, when it becomes clear Ray isn't going to say anything. "By the window. I told her that she shouldn't—she just wanted to make sure you got back."

"It's your fault," Ray chokes out at last. "It's all your fault."

"Ray," Ryan protests weakly.

"No," the taller vampire snaps. His eyes flick up to stare down Pete. "If you hadn't—it's your fault." He's unable to speak past the emotion in his throat.

Pete doesn't move, doesn't speak. He doesn't have an argument because what Ray's said is true. He could have come back sooner, could have run faster. Something. Anything is better than watching Zoe die. He feels his happiness deflate, dirty sadness filling him up just like a balloon.

Unable to watch, Pete averts his eyes. The sparkling remains of Zoe's arm catch his eye and he frowns. Every time he's seen vampires get staked, the moment their dust came in contact with the ground it burst into flame, gone within seconds. Not now, though. The dust still glitters teasingly on the cheap flooring of the apartment, gathering into larger and larger piles as the limb deteriorates.

"Wait," Pete says dumbly.

"Sorry," Ray chokes, angry, "but we can't exactly do that right now."

"No, wait," Pete repeats, bending down to brush the dust with his fingers. When he takes his hand away, his fingertips feel different, firmer almost, and it nearly looks as though though it's sinking into his skin. At least for a moment. Although it starts to fade at first, after a few seconds it sparkles even brighter and falls to the floor again when he rubs his thumb against the pads of his fingers.

"Do you think," he says slowly, then stops.

"What?" Ryan is watching him intently.

"That she still has a chance."

Ray makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Zoe lifts her chin and presses her nose into his neck, taking a deep breath to inhale his scent. Ray lifts his gaze to meet Pete's. "What do you mean?" he demands, desperate.

"Just—look." Pete gestures to the glitter. "It hasn't gone anywhere and maybe—I think it might. We could fix her."

Ray goes very, very still. "If you're fucking pulling shit out of your ass I swear to god—"

"Ray," Ryan interrupts hurriedly, but Pete shakes his head.

"No, I kinda am," Pete warns. "But do we really have another choice?"

Ray makes an indecisive noise.

"For fuck's sake," Zoe rasps, startling them all, "anything has got to better than— _gah!_ " She breaks off with another cry when another chunk of her arm disintegrates.

"Okay, okay," Ryan agrees, moving to Pete's side. "What do we do?"

"Um." Fuck. He hasn't really gotten that far. "Gather up the—dust? The dust." They crouch to the floor and scoop up the sparkling matter with their hands, moving it all into a large pile. "And, um, put her arm in it."

Staring like Pete's grown a second head—maybe he has—Ray positions Zoe so she can reach out with the stub of her left arm, now three-quarters gone. Groaning, she practically falls out on his lap trying to reach. At first, it seems as though nothing's happening, and Pete feels like the biggest fucking idiot, Ray death-staring holes in the side of his head, and then—and then—

Where Zoe's arm touches the dust, it sticks to the limb, reforming her arm. Soon, the particles move of their own accord, fingers twitching back to life several seconds later. They all look on with shock.

"I didn't expect it to work," Zoe breathes, stock-still.

"Neither did I," Pete confesses, staring in amazement.

Zoe flexes her hand experimentally, cursing when the movement sends her fingers crumbling again. She stills and the digits solidify.

"What—why didn't it work?" Ray demands, turning a thunderous expression on Pete.

Pete feels another wave of panic building in his chest and struggles to think around it. "I—I don't—"

"Do you think," Ryan interrupts, sounding nervous. The three other vampires look up in unison, but Ryan doesn't notice, too busy staring at the window, at the harsh sunlight that lies beyond it. "That—it has to...set?"

It takes them a moment. Then, all at once, hope lights up Zoe's face, anxiety settles deep and twisting in Pete's belly, and Ray clutches Zoe tighter to his body. "No," he says, and Pete is surprised by the tremor in his voice.

"Ray," Ryan pleads.

"We're not—I can't—you really want to put her through that again?"

"'Her' is right here, dipshit," Zoe creaks, fighting to keep as still as possible. "And she'll make her own damned decisions. Open the window, Ryan."

"Woah, woah." Ryan holds out his hands. "And kill the rest of us? And incinerate the rest of your body?"

"He's right," Pete agrees, gliding across the room until he stands just in front of the window. "Can you move closer?" He directs the question towards Zoe.

Grimacing, she nods and starts to move, painfully slowly. Reluctantly Ray lets her go.

Pete can feel the heat of the sun even from behind the shuttered and curtained window. God, he really doesn't want to do this. "I'll pull it open a bit," he says as Zoe crawls over. "And just—stick your arm in the sun."

"Are we sure about this?" Ryan asks nervously, stepping further into the shadows.

"No," Pete replies.

"I'm dead if I don't," Zoe puts in. She's right. Her arm isn't holding together as well as it was a second ago. There's no point in _not_ trying.

"Why is this even working?" Ryan wonders.

Pete shrugs, steeling himself to lift the curtain the tiniest bit. "I don't care. I'm just glad it is."

"Okay," Zoe breathes, nearly to the wall. "Okay."

Ray makes an aborted motion forward. "Zoe..."

She gently lifts her head. "I'll be okay, Ray." Her right arm trembles with the effort in keeping herself upright—she's tired and weak and in pain and Pete's honestly amazed that she can stay this calm and collected, that's she's held on this long. She presses against the wall and clenches her jaw. "Alright. Do your worst."

Pete feels anxiety wind deep down in his stomach. His hand clenches unwillingly around the edge of the curtain. The fabric feels hot, dangerous, and there are still shutters behind that he has to deal with.

"Wait," Ryan chokes. He appears on the other side of the room, having moved there in half a second. He presses back deeper into the shadows. "Oh my god," he whispers, too afraid to stay but too concerned for Zoe's well being to leave. Ray, on the other hand, actually moves a bit closer. Pete can see how he has to hold himself back from reaching out to his friend.

"Okay so," Pete begins, more to himself than anything. "I'm going to open the blinds first, through the curtains, and then pull them back a bit and you—just—hold out your arm. I guess."

Zoe nods tersely. "Right." Most of her concentration is focused on her arm, on not moving it too much, so that it doesn't disintegrates back into dust. As it is, it looks a little flaky.

Pete moves his hand over the thick material of the curtain, feels the outline of the blinds behind it. He slowly winds them open the tiniest bit. Immediately the curtain gets ten times hotter, burning the tips of Pete's fingers. They start to steam. "Fffuuckk," he hisses.

"What? What's wrong?" Ray asks, worried.

Pete shakes his head. "It's just hot." And it's still the morning. The sun isn't even all the way up yet.

Zoe gives a shaky laugh. "God." She looks up at Pete, makes eye contact, and nods, a tiny movement. "Okay, go."

Pete nods back and shifts his fingers closer to the edge of the curtain, careful not to tuck his fingers over the edge and to keep his feet away from where he knows the sunlight will pour in. "I'm going to move it in three, two...one." He pulls the fabric away from the wall a few inches and immediately feels like he's going to die, burst into flames, like lava is pouring over his skin—

But it's nothing compared to what Zoe is going through.

The scream that tears out of her throat is the farthest thing from human Pete's ever heard come from a human—or at least once-human—mouth. She thrashes forward and Pete thinks she's going to fling the rest of her body into the sun until Ray darts towards her, wrapping his arms tightly around her middle and pinning her down. She kicks out with her legs and elbows him in the gut, but Ray just grunts and squeezes tighter. Pete feels almost thrown back by the force of her scream, and it's not stopping, either, doesn't until she runs out of air, and then she just lays there, mouth gaping open, eyes rolling back in her head. She arches her back, trying desperately to get out of the light, and Ray looks so devastated, so broken, like he can't stand another second of this. But if this doesn't work, nothing will. They all know that. They have no fucking clue what they're doing but at least it's _something_ , at least they're not sitting around watching her die.

And then Zoe takes another breath, deep and open and wide, and screams again. Ray flinches away, but he keeps his grip on his friend. Zoe's arm glitters, sparkles, _glows_ , like the sun, like it's about ready to burn through the carpet and the floor and the floors below down to the ground and melt through the concrete and dirt and rock and stone and tear a hole all the way through the Earth down to the core, where it will flare so bright that all the iron will burn up and away and the Earth will stop spinning and nothing will matter except the sound of that scream echoing across the globe and soundlessly through the galaxy. In space, no one can hear you scream, but this sound, this noise, this pain, will reverberate through the universe and obliterate stars, a supernova in its own right.

Pete can't take it anymore, is about to drop the curtain—or open it all the way and end all their miseries—when the sound stops. The desperate silence rings louder than even Zoe's cries of agony. Hazy, uncertain, dazed, they all look towards where Zoe's arm rests gently on the floor, whole, complete, and in the sun. It doesn't burn, doesn't blister.

Pete feels dizzy with relief and confusion. He has literally no idea what has just happened, or why it fucking worked, but it did and—

"It's so warm," Zoe croaks, voice all but gone, a whisper of words all that's left after her monumental release of sound. "So warm. It's—it's fucking beautiful." The way her voice cracks has nothing to do with her screams. "I'd forgotten—" and now she can barely speak "—how wonderful it feels." She curls her fingers into a loose fist, stares at the shadows dancing across her palm. "It's like, like being in love. I'm not—so terrible anymore." She looks beautiful in the way only broken things can.

Ray fidgets when she says 'love' and draws his arms back. "Are you...are you okay?"

"I will be," she promises, finally pulling away from the window, fingertips lingering in the sunlight for a moment.

Pete lets the curtain drop and hurriedly closes the blinds. That really fucking hurt. Stepping back from the window, he shakes his hands, hoping to get the sting to leave them.

"Now what?" Ryan asks shakily from his corner of the room.

Zoe and Ray look at each other cluelessly. Pete shrugs. "We wait for night?"

* * *

They spend the day talking, and at some point Pete jokingly says that since they already all have matching hoodies they should just call themselves Hoods. He doesn't expect for the other three to go along with it, or be so enthusiastic about the idea. "I told you there had to be a third option," Zoe says proudly at some point. "And now there is. We have our own gang."

"We're not a gang," Pete butts in, but his protests fall on deaf ears. The rest of the...'Hoods' chatter excitedly about how everything's going to be okay, especially, Zoe jokes, now that she has an invincible arm.

"How did that even work?" Ryan wonders, and they all look to Pete expectantly.

He holds up his hands. "Don't fucking look at me," he says. "I was winging it."

_"_ _Winging_ it?" Ray repeats.

Pete bristles, finally fed up with Ray's shit. "Look, _Ray_ , if I hadn't done anything she'd be dead. If hadn't worked, she'd be _dead_. Be glad that it did, alright? We had to do something."

"But how did you know?" Ryan cuts in, giving Ray a glance that says _shut the fuck up_. Pete doesn't think he's going to listen, but Zoe lays her hand on Ray's arm and he lets out a disgruntled huff, but sinks back into the kitchen chair.

Pete frowns. "I just...I'm not sure. Something just told me it would, almost like, like someone was telling me what to do." He shakes his head. "I dunno. It sounds crazy."

"Crazier than the rest of this?" Zoe snorts.

"Like I said, I don't know," Pete says, frustrated. "I really wish I did, but I don't."

"Really," Ray mutters.

Pete can't take it anymore. He stands, glaring at the taller vampire. "I'll be in my room," he snaps, and leaves the kitchen.

He happens to find a few crumpled sheets of newspaper and an abandoned Sharpie that's almost dry under his bed, and spends the rest of the day holed up in his room, scribbling nonsense. Well, to anyone else it would be nonsense. The random lines crammed on the pages— _a moth trapped in the light—our guts can't be reworked...or can they—this is more than i bargained for—i'm a coal mine_ —overlap until they're nearly unreadable. At the last moment he realizes he needs to write a note to Patrick, so on the back of a half page he writes: _need 2 talk 2 u i'll find u just b alone_.

The airplane he folds is nearly perfect.

* * *

"Where are you going?" Zoe asks, and _fuck_ he was hoping to leave without any questions.

"Out," Pete replies vaguely.

"Can I come with?" She lifts herself from the couch, where she had been sitting with Ray's arm resting on the back of the sofa behind her.

Ray and Ryan look up, and Pete wilts under their gazes. "Are we all going?"

Ryan shakes his head. "You two have fun. Ray and I want to steal an Xbox or something. It gets boring."

"I don't understand how you don't have one already," Ray adds, watching Zoe walk over to Pete's side with careful eyes. "You sure you don't want to come with us, Zoe?"

She shrugs. "I'm alright."

Ray looks like he wants to say something else, but he just bites his lip and looks away, standing.

Pete just shrugs uncomfortably, not willing to tell his—friends?—roommates that there's literally nothing to do in the apartment is because he spent nearly three years wallowing around in guilt and boredom and a bad headspace. Still does. He's just not as obvious about it anymore, not now that he has three other vampires crammed into the apartment with him.

Zoe shifts her weight and gestures towards Pete's hand. "What's with the paper airplane?"

Unconsciously, Pete shifts so the object is more hidden behind his leg than not. "It's just a thing I do."

She shrugs and follows him out the door, Ray and Ryan not far behind. They split up as soon as they reach the ground floor, and Pete doesn't even say anything to Zoe before he's off and running, forcing her to sprint to catch up. He's at the Sixteen Candles office within a few minutes, and he stops and stares at it for a moment.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Zoe hisses, tugging on his sleeve.

Startled, Pete flinches away from her. He'd forgotten about her being there, had halfway hoped she would just let him go his own way. "Nothing. You can go do your own thing if you want," he says vaguely as way of reply, and starts to climb up the side of the building.

_"_ _Pete!_ " Zoe exclaims, pulling at his foot before he can get too far out of her reach. His shoe nearly falls off and he falls ungracefully back to the pavement. "What the fuck?"

Pete takes a deep breath, annoyed. "Would you just trust me? I know what I'm doing, alright?" He shifts the airplane from one hand to the other, careful not to crumple it in the slightest. Zoe's eyes widen at the movement.

"This doesn't have anything to do with that, does it? God Pete, are you going to try to fucking antagonize the hunters or something?"

"No," Pete replies, frustrated. He really wants to talk to Patrick. There had to have been some way he could have convinced Zoe to stay home—or at least stay out of his hair. "Look, Zoe, why don't you just go back and—"

"Is someone there?"

They both freeze, and after a second Pete shoves Zoe towards the wall, motioning for her to climb. "Hide, go. I'll take care of this."

She looks back with terrified eyes and then leaps off the pavement in her escape. Pete's glad she's gone, and he turns around and looks at the hunter with a smile crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "Patrick."

"Pete?" Patrick stops a few feet away, smiling back when he realizes that it is indeed his vampire friend. "What's up?"

"Actually," Pete begins, and swallows. "There's something...I don't know."

Patrick's brow furrows. "Is everything okay? Did you hear something else about the Dandies? Or those people who keep trying to get fed from?"

Shaking his head, Pete takes a half a step closer. "No, nothing like that, just—listen." Quickly, he tells Patrick everything that had happened to Zoe, going back and rushing through when the Hoods first showed up in his apartment through what had happened earlier that day. When he stops, Patrick stares at him.

"I'm—I—" he stutters.

"I didn't know what else to do other than talk to you about it," Pete confesses. He remembers the paper airplane in his hand and holds it out with a laugh. "This was supposed to be for you."

Patrick absently takes the object and tucks it into his bag. "Well I don't really know what to tell you, Pete."

"Her arm, though, it was just—fucking, like, laying there, in the sun, and it looked so warm and shit, and she started going on about how great it was to not, like, fucking hate yourself and feel like shit all the time, and I just—that sounds really nice. And. Fuck. I don't know where I'm going with this," Pete rambles, frustrated. Patrick just isn't— _understanding_.

"Wait." Pete takes a moment to stop and stare at the concerned look on Patrick's face. "You think it sounds nice to not—to not hate yourself?"

"Did I say that?" Pete answers vaguely.

"Kinda?" Patrick still looks stricken. "Pete, I know it probably doesn't seem like it, but—fuck, alright. I know, okay, what that's like, 'cause a lot of really shitty things have happened to me, and for a long time I blamed myself for her dying, and sometimes I still do and—just—it's never worth hating yourself over, okay? God, I don't know where I'm going with this, either."

"Her?" Pete asks. He tries to tell himself he's more concerned with the trauma in Patrick's past than the fact that the person is a 'her' as opposed...as opposed to what? A 'he'? Patrick had already told him that he wasn't gay, this shouldn't be a surprise. And besides, it's not like it matters anyway.

Patrick sucks in a breath. "Um."

"I'm sorry. You don't have to answer. Or anything." Pete's kinda regretting all his life choices at the moment.

"No, I'm...it's okay. I mean, this isn't the time _or_ place I would have chosen to have a heart-to-heart, but...whatever. She, um. Well." Patrick falls silent, and Pete can't stand the silence. If it lasts a second longer he's going to launch into explaining all his inner thoughts and all the times he's wanted to step into the sun and probably talk about Gerard while he's at it—which would probably be a really fucking bad idea—so he's glad when Patrick talks before he can.

"She...meant a lot to me. Like, a lot a lot. And then, those fucking bastards, those Dandies, that _dickwad_ Beckett, they—" He sucks in a breath. "She's." He closes his eyes tightly.

"Hey," Pete says softly, "seriously, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, I need to," Patrick protests, and there's a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. "Let's just say—let's just say all the verbs I use when talking about her are in the past tense."

Pete's quiet. "I'm sorry," he says, and reaches out for Patrick, touches him lightly on the arm. "I guess we really are fucked up together."

Smiling crookedly, Patrick leans slightly into Pete's touch. "Yeah. We are." He clears his throat. "So, about your friend."

"Right." Pete knows an evasion tactic when he sees one, but he's not about to go giving Patrick shit about it. "I wanted your opinion on it," Pete adds, more quiet. He drops his hand.

Shrugging, Patrick's eyes glance down to Pete's hand before coming back to rest on his face. "If you had told me about it yesterday I would have called you crazy. But now..." He makes a noncommittal noise.

"Do you think," Pete begins after a pause, and then stops.

Patrick waits for Pete to go on. "Do I think what?" he asks when he doesn't say anything else.

"That it could work for everyone?" Pete blurts, not making eye contact.

Carefully, Patrick says, "I don't see why not. But Pete, there'd be no way to do your whole body, and it sounds so painful that I don't think it's worth it hurting yourself over."

Pete swallows and doesn't say anything.

"Pete, seriously." Patrick's voice is urgent. "Don't do anything stupid, okay? I haven't known you very long and I already consider you my friend and I care about, about my friends, alright?" This time it's Patrick's turn to reach out to Pete, and he places his hands on his shoulders. "So please, for me, don't do anything stupid."

And how the hell is Pete supposed to say anything but "Okay" when he's being begged with eyes like those? When Patrick's (full, pretty) lips tremble under the weight of cracked words?

God, it feels nice to be cared about by someone.

At Pete's reply, relief crashes down over Patrick's expression. He makes as if to pull Pete into a hug, but then hesitates, eyes going to his mouth and the fangs just barely hidden there. Pete presses his lips shut and wraps his arms around Patrick's torso. He buries his face in his neck and counts it as a victory when Patrick doesn't flinch away, but merely hugs back. He smells nice. Pete finds himself relaxing, so the gunshot that cracks through the air startles him so badly he flings himself backwards and falls to the ground. Or maybe that's the bullet wound in his forehead.

"Pete!" Patrick cries.

"Holy shit, Patrick, are you okay?" shouts a voice. Several footsteps pound down the alley towards them.

Pete gurgles around all the blood in his mouth and rolls painfully onto his side. He can feel the bullet pushing back out of his skull, slow and painful. He coughs, spraying the ground with blood.

"I'm fine!" Patrick practically screeches. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Three other hunters come into Pete's hazy field of view. They all look vaguely familiar, but he's in too much pain to give it much thought.

"Did he have you under his compel?" one of them asks, reaching out to check Patrick over. His hair curls forward over his forehead and into his blueblue eyes.

"Fucking—no, god, Joe, he—" Patrick brushes away his—Joe's—touch and ignores the hurt expression on his face. Turning around as if to go to Pete's aid, Patrick freezes. "What the—"

Pete feels arms curl around him, lifting him up. He struggles to get his feet under him, but his vision is still fuzzy and he can't quite think straight. "Get away from us," a shaky voice commands. _Zoe?_

There's the sound of multiple weapons being pulled out. "Fuck, now there's two of them," a female voice curses.

"Wait," Patrick chokes, desperate. "Wait."

"Patrick, get out of the way," Joe says dangerously.

"No," Patrick protests. "Just wait—just wait, no. Joe, please."

Pete finally comes to his senses, and he turns and glares at Zoe. "I thought I told you to get out of here," he hisses.

She stares definantly back. "Yeah, well fuck _that_ , you obviously can't take care of yourself."

Pete pushes her away. "Seriously, Zoe, get the fuck out of here."

"Not without you," she protests.

"Patrick, _move_."

"Zoe," Pete snaps, and something in his voice must finally break through her stubbornness because she takes a staggering step back. "Do you _want_ to fucking die."

"Guys, just wait," Patrick begs, holding out his arms.

"Patrick," the girl hunter pleads. "They're just vamps."

_"_ _Zoe_ ," Pete says again, urgent. Zoe looks like she wants to argue, but she just makes a frustrated noise and takes off running, a blur that scales the wall and disappears into the Chicago night.

Pete turns back to Patrick, still a bit wobbly, dizziness sending him sideways before he regains his balance. The hunters behind Patrick creep around his sides, getting into a better position to attack; they all have stakes in their hands. Patrick faces him, too, and there's desperation in the pulse of blood at the junction of jaw and neck. "Patrick," Pete whispers, and it sounds like _help._

With a cry, the girl hunter leaps forward. At the last moment, Patrick grabs her by the back of her shirt and yanks her down. Someone yells a vehement " _what the fuck_ — _?_ " and then more people start running and Pete doesn't know what to do except lock gazes with Patrick, who's struggling to untangle himself from the girl and climb to his feet.

"Pete, go," Patrick shouts, eyes wide and terrified.

Pete goes.

He fucking _books it_ , running as fast as he had when trying not to get caught in the sun, maybe faster— _why didn't you run that fast then? It could have saved you a lot of trouble_ —until he's blocks and blocks away. Finally, he skids to a stop, sliding into the shadows and sinking to the ground. Groaning, he puts his face in his hands. God, he's fucked up, hasn't he. He just hopes Patrick is okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well _that_ was a trainwreck.  I hope I can make it up to you with the next chapter, which (hopefully) shouldn't take too long to write. Just, yanno, my third week of school starts tomorrow and it's just going to get crazier from here! If it seems like I'm taking eight thousand years to update, don't worry—there's no way in hell I'll abandon this, I've just got a lot on my plate. I'll try to be back ASAP though. :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally so short—like it's not even 1000 words—but I felt that some exposition was necessary after that confusing mess of a chapter, so hopefully this clears some things up (or maybe it makes them more confusing idk).

If he were still human, he would slowly let all the air in his lungs out through his nose in a relieved sigh. He would feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders. He would lean back in his chair and congratulate himself on a job well done, on giving them the information they needed to save her.

But he has not been human in nearly one thousand years. The last dredges of those feelings drained away with his hope when Beckett came along and tried (and partially succeeded) to take over, systematically killing off anyone stronger than him or that got in his way for the last one hundred and fifty years.

So instead, the Priest blinks once, not pausing in his work. He continues going through church paperwork, signing off on some things and checking up on ongoing projects. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers what has happened, but it isn't important. Merely something that needed to occur.

Yes, he knows that a limb has not been successfully regenerated since the Crusades, when much the same thing had happened to him, although on a much more drastic scale. He remembers his friend, also newly turned, looking on at him with sad, sad eyes, saying, as empires burned down around them, "They say the sun loves the vampires. And that it is ashamed to be in love with such evil creatures, so it burns them." And the way he stepped into the sun—he remembers that most of all. He remembers it still, although he tries not to, watching the sun overtake skin, dust glittering softly on the floor, in the water. He remembers being tempted by the sin to expose himself to the sun as well, his despair and relief when it did not work. It does not matter.

He knows, also, that if Beckett were to get ahold of this information too soon the city—the country—perhaps more—would be doomed to fall under his power. The Dandy leader would not hesitate to exploit such an advantage. He has been trying to get control over the human population since Chicago was a mere decade old, and he cannot be allowed to succeed.

The Priest, of course, cannot directly interfere. He has come too close to that already, but he has promised himself he would remain as neutral of a third party as possible—which is why he needs Pete Wentz.

The girl—she is incredibly lucky. She would not be alive if it were not for him. The Priest had known this would happen; he has eyes and ears all over the city, knew that Pete was nearly going to be caught in the sun. But it would have been too traumatic for the gangless vampire if he had watched her die. The Priest needs him to be on the top of his game if he is to survive the oncoming storm.

So he had told Pete what to do in order to save her.

Whispered words sent over a compel so powerful that not even Brendon could challenge him, a nudge in the correct direction. _The dust_ , he had prompted, and then, to the other one, so as not to raises suspicion, _the sun_. It had been almost too easy. And now she is whole— _better_ than whole, even. The Priest knows this information will spread like wildfire, is in fact counting on it.

He has seen what will happen, in glimpses and snippets of information. He gets memories of the future the same way Brendon gets them from the past. When Pete had been a young pup, newly turned, the Priest had told him that he would be able to live without the one he loves, that it would all turn out alright in the end, and to not worry. Although he doubts it, the Priest hopes he remembers and heeds that warning. He will need to. Soon, Chicago will descend into chaos. It is unpreventable.

Until then, he has a church to take care of. The Priest turns a paper over, smoothing it down with long, narrow fingers, as he mulls over the rest of the items on his desk.

The world spins on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for 100 kudos???? Like wow I literally never thought I would get this far thank you so much. <3
> 
> Also, I won't let it be more than two weeks (at the _most_ ) before chapter 17 is up so hopefully it won't be too long. Until then, tell me what you think is going to happen next! :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I looked it up and the car in the music video to A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More "Touch Me" is actually a 1967 Chevy Impala.  No joke.  *cue Supernatural fangirling* 
> 
> But seriously, I'm bringing in the big guns with this chapter.  I'm bringing in...the _canon_  (with several major alterations, but whatever). Enjoy!

 

Patrick doesn't bother to look at Joe when he stomps back into SCHA, even though his fellow hunter is talking to him and demanding answers and trying to slow him down.

"Patrick, listen to me," Joe pleads, pulling on his jacket sleeve.

Patrick jerks his arm away. "Don't touch me."

"What the fuck was all that about?" Vienna demands. "Those were vampires, Patrick. Vam. Pires. _Vampires_. We hunt those fuckers for a living."

Patrick makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat. "It—you wouldn't understand."

"Try us," comes Andy's voice, quieter and more reasonable. Patrick turns to him.

"Maybe they're not all bad," he begins, but he can already tell he's not going to convince them by the way Joe bristles and Vienna snorts. Andy just looks skeptical.

"They're monsters, Patrick," Joe insists.

Rolling his eyes, Patrick huffs and turns away from his friends, shuffling mindlessly through the paperwork on the front desk. "How would you know?"

"How would _you?_ " Joe retorts.

Patrick's breath stutters. Keeping his expression as neutral as possible, he looks up at Joe and gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders. "I'm just saying."

"'Just saying' hasn't exactly helped us in the past," Vienna reminds him, leaning her elbows on the desk. She tilts her head, prompting Patrick to look at her, which he does reluctantly. Her eyes are brown and dark and deep and emotional, and Patrick has to turn his head because—because they remind him too much of Vienna's sister. Of Winona. It's overwhelming. Patrick remembers how he'd Vienna for nearly a month and a half after her death. He's still broken up about it.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, plopping down in the chair. "I'm so sorry." He has to fight to keep his breath even, to breathe at all.

"It's not your fault." Joe's at his shoulder, placing a gentle hand there. "Patrick. It's not. But do you get it? We can't trust them. They've never done anything but hurt us."

Shrugging for no other reason than to get Joe's hand off him, Patrick doesn't answer. Joe looks hurt. Usually Patrick would lean into his touch, smile at him. Lately he's been more distant, and he doesn't understand why. "Whatever," Patrick mutters.

Sensing the thick tension, Andy clears his throat. "Speaking of killing vamps," he begins awkwardly. "We got an anonymous tip that there would be some unusually high activity tomorrow night on the outskirts of town."

"And we're going to go out there," Vienna adds, nodding. "Bait them into coming out in the open, and kill em all." She grins sharply.

Andy laughs softly. "They all know who you are, V. They won't come within striking distance of you. Hope you're not planning on being the bait."

Vienna sticks out her tongue. "Then I'll wear a disguise." When Andy just chuckles again she turns back to Patrick. "Sounds like fun, yeah?"

Patrick feels something shiver over his skin. He shakes his head. "Not really." He regrets his reply when the other hunters seem instantly concerned by his answer.

"What happened to you?" Joe asks. "You've been all...weird lately. And now especially, suddenly not wanting to kill some Clandestine sons of bitches."

"I don't know. Tired I guess," Patrick sighs. "Really tired."

Andy goes still. "Did he drink from you?"

"No!" Patrick says, too-quick. Pete did, but just not in the way they think, and that's not why he's tired. He's not even sure why he's tired. Life, maybe. "No. It's not that. I just think that all the late nights are catching up to me."

"Patrick..." Vienna says, and then trails off.

"We know that you don't exactly... _like_ talking about the vampires and what they did to—what they're capable of," Andy soothes, "but if something happened we need to know."

"Nothing happened," Patrick grumbles. "Can we just go back to planning the attack tomorrow night?"

Andy and Vienna trade a concerned look, but all Joe does is smile, a little sadly, and say, "Sure, Patrick. Whatever you want."

* * *

Nervous energy sizzles through Patrick's muscles, leaving him restless and twitchy. He shuffles his feet, staring off the roof of SCHA—it's been his place to think even before he met Pete. The view of the city is great, especially like this, with the last of the light stretching lazy and yellow through buildings, bumping off windows.

It's evening the next day; they're scheduled to leave in a few hours on their hunting trip and he's not going to get to see Pete before he goes, which...well, it really sucks. He has things he wanted to tell him. The Dandies are on the move, but it's different this time. Urie isn't as present, almost like he's staying back wherever their hideout is to plan, or lead. There isn't much news on Beckett, either. But it doesn't bode well—something is going to happen, and soon. There had been a major vampire fight on the other side of town a few nights ago, the largest that Patrick has seen in nearly three years. By all estimates several dozen vampires killed each other, and that has been reflected in the number of humans disappearing recently as well.

Patrick takes a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs and then sucking in even more until he feels full of the night. Letting it out in a huff, Patrick plays with the paper airplane in his hands. Carefully, he unfolds it, eyes lingering over the snatches of lyrical writing before landing on the message Pete had left him.

_need 2 talk 2 u i'll find u just b alone_

Patrick smiles. It's _so_ Pete. Funny how he'd found the vampire instead.

"Patrick? Are you up here?"

Patrick turns and nods at Joe, carefully placing the paper airplane in the pocket of his oversized jacket.

Gently, as if he's afraid he'll fall through the roof, Joe tiptoes over to where Patrick is standing. For a moment they're quiet as they look out over the city, burning red in the dying light of day. Joe stands close to his side, arms brushing, and Patrick can feel him looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He sighs and Joe looks away.

"Are you okay?" his friend asks, soft and genuine.

Patrick considers replying with a customary "I'm fine," but Joe knows him too well for that. They've been friends for a long time, and at one point Joe had wanted more than that, but Patrick had—well, he wasn't interested. If Patrick's being honest though, he can see the way that Joe still looks at him. "Just thinking," he says instead.

"About what?" Joe sounds like he honestly cares and wants to know. Patrick hates it. He feels terrible because he doesn't want this, doesn't want someone to care this much for him when he can't do the same back.

Patrick shrugs and turns away slightly, sinking into his shoulders. Pete, if he's being honest. And how one day the hunters might get to him and Patrick will never know, or worse, he'll have to watch as they do it and be able to do nothing. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

Joe is silent for a moment. He takes a breath like he wants to say something else, but then hesitates for too long and the moment is lost. "We should get going. Vienna's been in 'disguise' for hours already; she's really excited. Andy's hardly been able to keep her from heading out there already." He chuckles softly.

"Yeah," Patrick agrees absently. "Just give me a second."

"...Alright." He picks his way back across the roof. His gaze burns a hole in the back of Patrick's head, and he fidgets uncomfortably until he disappears down the stairs back into the building.

As soon as he hears the door close, Patrick bends down and takes another piece of paper out of his pocket, one meant for Pete. He just hopes that he gets it in time.

Satisfied that the paper is safely wedged between bricks, he finally heads after Joe, waving to Michael—another hunter—when he gets to the bottom of the steps. He walks down the hall over to the briefing room, where Joe, Vienna, and Andy are waiting for him.

When Patrick enters the room, he sees that Joe wasn't kidding when he said Vienna was ready to go. She's nearly out of her mind with excitement. A brown wig rests snugly over her cropped blonde locks, giving her slightly longer than shoulder-length hair. She smirks when Patrick stops and stares at her. He's never seen her with long hair a day in her life, and she's wearing more makeup than she has since her high school prom—Winona had told him about that, how she'd had to help her sister because she couldn't put on eyeliner without stabbing herself in the eye. Patrick is surprised when he smiles, thinking of Pete and his eyeliner, instead of feeling like crying, thinking about Winona and hers.

"I know, it's a bit ridiculous," Vienna says, poofing her hair. "But I've always wanted to know what it would be like to have longer hair than Andy." She shoots him a grin, and Andy rolls his eyes, fighting back his own smile.

"Is it even really necessary?" Patrick laughs, and Vienna gives him a faux-offended look.

"Don't you know? I'm infamous for my vampire-killing. They'd all run if they got a glimpse of me."

"She's had this wig for years and never used it," Andy says, grinning.

Vienna sticks out her tongue. "Fuck you. But that too."

Patrick shakes his head in amusement. Of course.

Joe comes up behind him, the touch of his hand ghosting over Patrick's shoulder. "You guys ready?"

They all voice their assent and follow as Patrick leads them to the back, where the garage is. They've decided to take two different cars; one of the indiscreet black ones that Patrick doesn't care to know the model of that he and Joe are taking, along with their weapons, and the one that Andy and Vienna are taking—a beautiful 1967 Chevrolet Impala, black. Patrick's jealous. Grayson technically left the car to him when he handed over the agency, but he almost never gets to ride in it. Andy twists the key in the ignition and it purrs to life, a healthy growl. Joe is visibly disappointed when he starts their car and it silently turns over.

"Why don't we ever get to ride in the cool car?" he mutters under his breath.

"Andy and Vienna are the bait," Patrick reminds him, trying to be reasonable even though he agrees, "so they need the flashy car."

Joe disengages the parking brake. "Mm hm. Sure. Sometimes I think it's just 'cause you don't know how to drive stick." Joe glances at him slyly out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey!" Patrick protests, smiling, "I can too. That's how I first learned; Grayson taught me." And maybe he's a bit rusty, but he can. He likes to, too. Standard is more fun, more engaging than driving automatic.

"Sure," Joe teases, and pulls out of the garage ahead of Andy and Vienna.

They take a slightly different path, and Joe and Patrick get there several minutes before the rest of their team. The sun hasn't quite set yet, so Patrick and Joe park the car behind some bushes some distance away and take out their weapons: guns, stakes, throwing knives. They hide in the shadows. Normally, they'd be farther away so as not to let the Clandestines catch their scent, but Michael back at the base had been working on a spray to mask their smell, render them invisible that way. It's worked pretty well in the testing stages, and Patrick thinks that next time he sees him he'll ask Pete about it, see how well it really holds up.

Joe shifts, getting his legs under him in a different position, and presses closer to Patrick's side, letting out a shaky breath, unnoticeable except for the way Patrick can feel it shuddering through his body.

Patrick catches Joe's eye and raises his eyebrows sympathetically. _Nervous?_ he mouths.

Shaking his head, Joe gives a small, reassuring smile. He bites his lip though, a sure sign that he's not telling the truth. Patrick studies him for a moment, but the sound of the Impala pulling up distracts him from whatever else he might have said.

Andy drives the car over to the edge of the hill overlooking the city, killing the engine. The night is quiet, supremely so, and Patrick takes a deep breath through his nose, straining his ears. The last of the sun has just faded away, and for several minutes nothing happens.

Giggling erupts from the car, overdone and overly dramatic. Patrick fights back a wince. Vienna might be a little _too_ excited about this.

Nearly half an hour of night passes before the first wind of vampire activity makes it way to them.

Joe is the first to notice something, brushing Patrick's arm with a feather-soft touch of his fingers. When Patrick makes eye contact with him—difficult in the dark of their hiding place—Joe jerks his head to the side and pulls at the lobe of his ear. He's heard something to the right. Patrick stills even more than he already is and strains his ears, noticing at last the faint sounds of something moving. He nods minutely.

The noises from the Impala quiet down, and Patrick watches with a twist of anxiety as three shapes, distinctly Clandestine with their crazy hair and clothes, creep closer to the vehicle. They pause for a moment, and then one of them leaps on the hood. Vienna lets loose an impressive scream as the female vampire snarls at her, showy and over-the-top in her movements. A second one joins her. The third Cland moves to Andy's side of the car and bangs menacingly at the window, breaking it. This time Patrick does wince—it's going to be expensive to fix that. Vienna takes a breath and lets out another scream. That's their cue.

Patrick and Joe leap from their hiding places, pulling out stakes as they go; Patrick fires a shot and knocks the girl off the car. She wails, cursing. Andy and Vienna burst out of the car and start fighting as well, and it all seems to be going well— _too well_ , Patrick thinks nervously—before the rest of the vampires appear.

There's a lot of them—too many for it to be a coincidence. There must be five or six more that leap from the shadows.

"It's a fucking trap!" Vienna chokes, struggling to get out from underneath the vampire pinning her down.

Patrick fights it, elbowing a vampire that comes up behind him in the stomach, trying and failing to stab one with the stake, but they quickly overpower them, pulling his weapons from his grasp. An especially tall one—he's fucking a foot taller than him—draws Patrick into his arms, leaning over his shoulder and grinning as he watches the rest of Patrick's team be subdued. Vienna still curses and writhes on the ground, and Joe's made such a scene that one of the vampires had to subdue him with venom. Andy just stares hatefully around at them all, held down by two vampires.

The vampire holding Patrick in long, long arms noses Patrick's neck, breathing in. "Yeah, it's a trap," he chuckles. Patrick squirms uncomfortably, fighting down the unwelcome panic growing in his stomach that threatens to overwhelm him. He hates being pinned down, trapped by vampires. It's his worst fear, he can't—he can't—

"But your little 'agency' has been terrorizing my family for too long," the Clandestine holding Patrick growls into his ear, snapping him from his thoughts. "This gang isn't going to deal with your shit anymore." Patrick can practically feel his grin. "Lucky us we got the little leader here."

Patrick grows cold at his words. _His_ family? Oh god, they're supremely fucked. This is the Clandestine _leader_. It's—

The vampire spins Patrick around, taking his hand and holding him still with the flash of compel in his eyes. "Travis McCoy," he introduces himself, bowing mockingly over Patrick's hand. He presses a mocking kiss to his knuckles, tongue sliding out to lick them a the last moment. Patrick snatches his hand away, sickened, and McCoy laughs. "Call me Travie. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stumph. I've heard a lot about you, although I don't think we've met."

"No," Patrick trembles. Fear climbs steadily up his ribcage, leaping the gaps between bones and reaching out to tangle in his lungs. "We haven't."

"That's right, I forget," McCoy says casually. He drops their hands in order to straighten Patrick's shirt, tugging at the hem. Patrick feels like something is crawling under his skin. "That pleasure belongs to _Beckett_." His lip curls up at the name.

Patrick feels sick. He doesn't—he doesn't like thinking about that.

When McCoy sees the way Patrick's gone pale, his expression softens marginally. "Don't worry 'bout it, kid. You won't ever have to see him again." His grin glints sharply, fangs shiny. "I'll be having too much fun keeping you to myself."

Now Patrick can feel bile rising in the back of his throat as his stomach clenches painfully. No. He doesn't want this. _No._ "No," he says again, out loud.

McCoy leans back and gives Patrick an appraising look. "No?"

"No," Patrick agrees, desperation sinking its claws into his heart. He still can't move his legs, but his arms are free. Quicker than he thought himself capable of moving, Patrick snaps his hand into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out the knife he keeps hidden there. He flings it as hard as he can towards McCoy, who is too surprised to do anything other than watch as the blade embeds itself in his throat.

McCoy staggers back and coughs, blood spraying out of his mouth. His legs buckle and Patrick feels the compel on him snap—he's moving before one of the other Clandestines can so much as flinch towards their leader to help him. He flings himself to the ground behind McCoy and wraps an arm around his torso, placing his hand on the knife. Ignoring the blood running cold and sticky over his hands, Patrick gives a menacing glare to the other Clandestines, who have started to move closer. "Don't move another inch," he threatens, unable to hide the waver in his voice. "I'll cut off his fucking head." His fingers feel unsteady and slippery with blood.

The Clandestines freeze. Unsure what to do, they trade meaningful glances but seem unable to come up with a plan.

McCoy gurgles, and it takes Patrick a moment to realize he's laughing around the blade caught in his neck. "'Id you relly thin tha this woul wor?" he chokes.

"I don't have to think anything," Patrick hisses back. "I know it, 'cause it's already worked you fucking asshole."

Patrick feels McCoy struggle to look at him, tearing the blade in his throat even more. "You sure abou tha?" He grins crookedly and before Patrick knows it there's a hand snaking around his ankle and pulling his feet out from under him. McCoy twists around and trips up Patrick, who's unable to keep his grip with all the slick blood beneath his fingertips, until he's got the shorter man trapped beneath him. McCoy brackets Patrick's hips with his knees, trapping his wrists in one hand and pulling the knife from his neck with the other.  Blood splatters down on Patrick, and he presses his lips firmly together when it falls dangerously close to his lips.  The vampire snarls. "You're going to get it now, kid. Guess you're not going to last as long as I had hoped you would." He eyes the blade, slick with his own blood, and a dark look comes over his black eyes. "Or maybe longer. A lot longer." He presses the knife softly against Patrick's throat.

Patrick freezes, desperately trying to keep the edge from piercing his skin. He hears Andy cry out a ragged " _No!_ " before he's silenced. If any vampire blood gets in his system he'll be turned and he can't—he can't let that happen. He'd rather have anything else happen. He'd rather die. He'd rather be fed from. He'd rather—fuck, he wouldn't go back to Beckett, but it's a close one.

McCoy pauses. "You know, first I think I'll sate my hunger, since you fucked up my neck you little bitch." He draws back his lips and swipes his tongue hungrily over his bloody teeth. "But I'll have to work fast to get all your blood before mine takes effect." His muscles tense in preparation and all Patrick has time to think is _this is it this is it this is_ —

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that cliffhanger (not really).  What do you think is going to happen next?  Where is Pete during all of this?
> 
> Also I have hella huge amounts of band practice and school and stuff so...updating may come even slower than normal, but I'll try extra had for y'all.  <3 (Wow Sam be just a little bit mORE Texan I don't think they've noticed it yet.)
> 
> Good luck at school in the meantime!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long, my peeps. What have we learned from this experience? To not trust Sam when she says the next chapter will be up soon. Sorry! School and band have been crazy, plus I'm applying for colleges and I just have no free time so hnnghghgh. I promise I haven't abandoned this, though! I'd never do that.
> 
> Enjoy!

Although Zoe seems convinced otherwise, Pete doesn't actually want to talk to her.

“What the hell was that all about?” she demands, reaching out to yank on Pete's arm to prevent him from disappearing into his bedroom again.

Pete shrugs her off.  “Nothing.  I don't know why you're making a big deal out of it.”

“What was what all about?” Ryan asks from the doorway behind them.  “Woah.  Why is everyone so angry?” he continues when he walks in and sees how on-edge Zoe is.

“Why don't you ask him,” she spits.  “Ask him about his little hunter friend and how he's trying to turn us all in.”

“What the fuck?” comes Ray’s incredulous voice.  He nearly drops the Xbox in his arms turning on Ryan.  “You said we could trust him!” he accuses his friend.  “And now look!  The son-of-bitch is trying to get us killed!”

“I'm not trying to get  _ anyone _ killed!” Pete snaps.  “Just fuck off.  Don't worry about it.”

“Don't worry about you canoodling with a fucking hunter?  Pete, I don't know if you're aware of this,” Zoe says slowly, as if talking to a small child who is having difficulty understanding you, “but they kill us.  For a  _ living _ .”

“I know.”  Pete grits his teeth.  “I fucking know that.”

“What’s going on?” Ryan wonders, creeping around Pete slowly to go stand by Zoe.  “What happened?”  Ray appears next to him.

“The reason Pete didn’t want me to come along was because he didn’t want me to see him getting all touchy-feely with a hunter,” Zoe spits.

“I wasn’t being ‘touchy-feely.’”  Pete’s being too defensive and he knows it.

“Then what the hell was going on?” Ray all-but-growls.  “Because so far nothing seems like something I should trust you over.”

Pete debates over how much he should tell them—on the one hand, they’re not going to be happy to know that he’s on such good terms with the leader of the most renowned hunting agency in the city, but on the other, he wouldn’t be surprised if they kicked him out of his own home over the fear that he would try to give them up to Sixteen Candles Hunting Agency.  “You’re not going to like this,” Pete warns them at last.  He directs his words to Ryan, since he seems the most reasonable out of all of them.

“I haven’t liked anything I’ve heard  _ or _ seen so far, so I’m not sure what you could do to make this much worse,” Zoe retorts, crossing her arms.

“Look, I’m—Patrick and I are...friends, I guess.”  Pete wants to close his eyes but also doesn’t want to be caught unawares if someone tries to throw a punch.  As it is, he’s met with silence.

Ryan takes a breath and licks his lips, frowning, like he wants to say something.  “You—um.  Pat...Patrick?” he gets out at last.

“Friends?” Zoe adds, incredulous.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Ray breathes.  “Fucking.   _ Crazy _ .”

“Look,” Pete says, distressed.  He hadn’t wanted to talk about this.  “I’ve got it under control.  There’s no big deal here—we just trade information sometimes and—”

“Wait.”  Zoe holds up her hand.  “You  _ trade information? _ ”

Pete nods uncomfortably.  He wants to go back two hours and keep this from ever happening.  “It’s not—it’s not a big deal.”

“Well what has he told you?” Ray demands, and Pete shrinks back.

“Um, well,” Pete racks his brains, trying to think.  “Not a lot actually.  Some stuff about these freaks who  _ want _ to be fed from, and how they’re trying to stop that.  I mean, we haven’t really known each other that long, so..” he trails off, unwilling to tell them about how we went off to help Patrick kill vampires and that’s the reason Zoe almost died.

“You’re trying—to  _ stop _ people, people who  _ want  _ to be fed from?” Ray splutters, incredulous.  “You’re helping him stop a food source and you haven’t even gotten anything useful from him?”

“I’ve gotten plenty of useful things from him,” Pete retorts, looking to start an argument.  Even after a few days he’s already tired of Ray’s shit and his shady looks and his obvious distrust of him.  He doesn’t need this and he’s feeling worn down and pissy and, really, he doesn’t care what the fuck happens next, but something needs to  _ happen _ .

Ray sucks in a breath at Pete’s words.  Zoe’s eyes narrow in confusion and then widen in clarity.  Ryan just looks lost.

“Is that so?” Zoe asks, voice thin.

“Wait—what?”  Ryan has no idea what’s going on.

Too late, Pete realizes how that could have been taken.  “No, not like that.  Never like that.”

Ray throws his hands up.  “Then like what?  What are we supposed to think, Pete?  That you  _ like _ spending time with humans?”

“We were human once, too,” Pete retorts.  “Or have you forgotten that?”

“But we’re not anymore,” Ray argues.  “We’re  _ different _ .”

“Maybe I don’t want to be different,” Pete replies, suddenly soft.

Zoe looks worried.  “Pete, I know being a vampire kinda sucks sometimes”—she looks at Ray out of the corner of her eye as if expecting him to argue with her—“but it’s what we are now.  We have to learn to live with it.”

Pet huffs out a breath.  “Whatever.  You guys don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were our angst-ridden emo teenage son,” Ray mocks, “although I should have, going by the haircut.”

“Ray,” Ryan begins, but the taller vampire cuts him off.

“No.  You’ve done nothing but treat us like shit since we got here.”  He takes a step forward, into Pete’s personal space, and presses a finger to his chest.  “You were supposed to be different, Pete, a way out.  And look at what’s happened.  We’ve been bored out of our minds the past few days because apparently all you know how to do for fun is fold paper airplanes and perfect your smudged eyeliner look.  You don’t sleep, you hardly eat, you lie to your guests—”

“I didn’t ask you to stay here.”  Pete roughly brushes Ray’s hand to the side.  “I didn’t want you to.  Have you even been looking for somewhere else to stay?”

“We’ll start now,” Ray hisses.  “‘Cause I don’t want to be around this bullshit anymore.”

“You’re the ones that came looking for  _ me! _ ” Pete shouts, unable to hold back.  God, he’s tired.  Tired of it all and worn thin at all his seams, ready to burst open.  “Don’t you fucking dare blame everything on me.”

“It doesn’t give you an excuse to be an asshole,” Zoe says bitingly, drawing up next to them.

“Exactly,” Ray agrees, smug.

“Nobody asked for any of it, but you don’t see us being asshats because of it,” she continues, glaring at Pete.  He’s a little surprised.  Of all of them, he would have thought she’d be the one to calm Ray down, not agree with him and goad him on.  “You’ve been keeping secrets, Pete.  Anything else we should know?  Maybe that hunter— _ Patrick _ —is your secret boyfriend?”  She seems more disgusted that he might be dating a human than that he might be dating another boy, which, okay, that’s not a reaction he’s received very often.

Pete’s infinitely glad he can’t blush.  “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Who else could you have been smiling over?” Zoe demands.  “You’re not exactly making us want to trust you, Pete.”

“I don’t need your fucking trust,” he grits.  He should be hating this; he should be backing down from the confrontation because he doesn’t like them.  Instead he feels himself fearing up for a fight, hackles raised.  “Why don’t you fucking get out of my face?”

“Maybe we will,” Ray agrees curtly, and makes a move as if to head to the door—and take Zoe with him.

But she jerks her arm away, her frosty brown glare turning on Ray.  “No, we’re not going anywhere.”

Ray seems flabbergasted—Pete doesn’t blame him, because he kind of is too.  “I’m—what?”

“We’re not going to just—just  _ give up _ because it gets hard.”

“I thought you wanted to leave.”  Ray blinks a few times as if that will clear the situation from his eyes, make things happen the way he expects them to.

“When did I ever say that?” Zoe asks him.  “Ray.  I know leaving the Clandestines was hard for you, that you almost didn’t want to go—”

“But I did,” Ray interrupts, voice oddly desperate.  “I  _ did _ leave—I came with you.”

“Ray, I know—”

“You don’t know.”  His voice grows strained.  “You wanted to leave from the first moment you got there, since the moment you were turned.  I—I was happy.  So no, Zoe, you don’t know.”

“Um,” Pete says, his anger deflated.  It seems to be the wrong thing to do though, since Ray turns away from Zoe and towards him.

“And you.  Don’t you dare complain about us being here.  You’re not special—it’s hard for all of us.”  His words get wobblier as he speaks.

Now, Zoe does head towards the still-open door, urging Ray to follow her.  She must hear something in his voice that Pete doesn’t, because she looks stricken, worry etched across every plane of her deceptively young face.  Ray follows without a single word passing between them, and he slips his hand into her outstretched palm.  “Ray and I are going for a walk for a while,” she announces, her voice soft.  She spares a glance for Pete.  “We’ll be back.”  It’s a promise, but Pete doesn’t know what of.  That she’ll calm Ray down, maybe, or that she’ll keep him from trying to go back to their old gang.  Maybe that they just don’t plan on staying away too long.  Whatever it is, Pete doesn’t get the chance to ask, because they’re out the door and gone before he can blink.

“That was...oddly anticlimactic,” Pete says to himself.

“Trust me,” Ryan says, making Pete jump—he’d forgotten the other vampire was there.  “That wasn’t the climax; we’re fortunate enough to get to skip that part.”

“Oh.”  Pete shuffles his feet awkwardly.

Ryan seems oddly at ease with the scene he’s just witnessed.  The lanky vampire heads deeper into the apartment, plopping down onto the couch and crossing his long giraffe legs.  Pete follows after absently closing the door.

“So,” he says hesitantly.  “What was all that about?”  He sits on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking his feet underneath him.  It’s old furniture and not even his, so he doesn’t worry about his ratty shoes getting on it.

Ryan leans back into the cushions and lets out the air in his lungs softly.  “It’s...complicated,” he says slowly, “and I’m not going to go into detail because ultimately it’s Ray’s story, not mine, but—”  He breaks off to make eye contact with Pete.  “Let’s just say he’s got a bad case of homesickness.”

Pete can feel the cogs of his mind shift, but nothing starts turning—they creak in protest and refuse to put Ryan’s words together in a way that makes sense to him.  “What?”

Ryan gives him a look that conveys how much of a  _ fucking _ idiot he thinks Pete is better than words ever could.  “He misses it, Pete.  Being a Clandestine.  He almost didn’t leave.”

“ _ What? _ ” Pete repeats, this time in amazement.  “Why wouldn’t you—why would you ever want to stay?”

Ryan’s mouth twists.  “I don’t know how long you’ve been out of the Dandies, so I don’t know if you’ve forgotten or what, but being in a gang is pretty fucking fantastic.  There’s a sense of family, of unity.  You have a common enemy.  And when you have doubts, there’s always the compel.”  Finally, he looks away.  “That’s how it was for me.  Travie—he could tell when I—when I wasn’t happy.  He would come, and tell me it was going to be okay, that we were family, that we had each others’ backs, and I would be fine for months—sometimes over a year.  He was so confident, so soft, so tall.  He made us feel safe and... _ wanted _ .”  Ryan looks up but doesn’t turn towards pete, talking to the ceiling.  “I was okay with killing people, bring them back and—and fucking  _ playing  _ with them for  _ days _ before they died.  But I don’t think I would have left.  Not for a century, at least.

“But Zoe...she’d been a Clandestine longer than me.  Longer than Ray.  And she was the one who finally convinced us to leave.  We weren’t going to, if not for you.”  Finally, finally, his eyes slide back over.  The emotion in them is raw and unreadable.  Pete feels pinned down by their weight.

“Me?”

“You.”  Ryan blinks, the movement sleepy and heavy.  “You were enough to convince me that trying it on our own wasn’t impossible.  Zoe was ecstatic when I told her about you—she begged me not to go to Travie about you.  I’m sure you’d be dead by now if I had.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Pete says dryly.

Ryan shakes his head.  “You’re still looking at me like I’m crazy,” he says, almost bitter.  “I don’t know how it was in the Dandies—”

“Neither do I,” Pete interrupts, shifting.  “And you keep acting like I should.”

Ryan stares at Pete like if he looks long enough he can figure out what he’s saying.  At last, he asks, “What?”

“I was never a Dandy,” Pete elaborates, irrationally annoyed.  “And I was never a Clandestine.  I was never an anything.”

If anything, his words make Ryan stare harder.  Which he does, until his expression melts into a crooked smile and he barks out a cruel laugh.  The sound surprises Pete, and he leans back and away from it as if afraid it’s going to reach out and grab him.

“Well.”  Ryan shakes his head, rueful.  “No.  You wouldn’t understand anything, then.  You would have no idea the  _ shit _ we’ve been through just to get here.”

Pete can feel himself gearing up for a fight again.  “You act like you’re so special.  I’ve been through shit, too.”  Pent-up energy twitches in his fingers.

A tendon is Ryan’s neck pulses, the only break in his calm exterior.  “You keep saying that our problems don’t matter because yours are just as important, or maybe more.  Well news flash, Pete.  Just because your life is shit and you have problems doesn’t mean ours don’t fucking matter.”

“I just want you three to move out of my house,” Pete complains, pushing at the other vampire as far as he can to see when he’ll snap.

Ryan chews on his next words before releasing them, obviously holding back some and rewording others.  “You know what?  Fuck you.”  He stands, trying to hide the tremble in his hands by clenching them.  Pete stands as well, halfway hoping Ryan takes a swing at him.

“Right back at you,” he taunts.

Ryan sucks in a deep, grounding breath.  “I’m headed out too.  I’ll be back later.”  The look he gives Pete is razor sharp.

“I’ll be waiting by the window,”   _ Seriously, Ryan.  Punch me.  Do something. _  Pete tired and strung out and brittle-feeling and just wants to move, to hit something back.

But all Ryan does is walk stiffly away.  “Don’t wait too long,” he creaks.  “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”  There’s so much contempt in those words that Pete’s sure they’d be the audio example of the word in an online dictionary.  After very deliberately pulling his arms from his hoodie and dropping it to the floor, Ryan flashes out of the room at a vampire’s superhuman speed.  Pete hears the door slam, banging loudly once and then the soft knock of it opening again and hitting the door stop.  The sound is overly intense on Pete’s pointed ears, the silence it leaves behind cutting into his chest.

With a muffled scream that gets caught on its way into the air and never makes it past Pete’s throat, he takes a few wild steps in a circle, arms swinging at nothing.  He needs to punch something, fucking  _ break  _ something.

Pete swoops down to hook his fingers underneath the edge of the couch, ready to fucking flip it across the fucking room and maybe even throw it through the wall.  Before he does, though, he catches a whiff of scent, released from the folds of his red hoodie by his movement, only noticed because of the proximity of his face to his arm.  It’s Patrick’s scent, warm and soft, a little bit of cologne and a little bit of sweat.

Pete falls to his knees and smashes his face into the cushions instead, letting out a frustrated scream.  What’s wrong with him?  He’s being such a dick.  And if can smell Patrick on him, semi-used to it as he is, then there’s no way the other Hoods missed it.  Fuck.  Just fuck.  He’s all out of sorts and doesn’t know why.  He’s still so angry, but it’s not like normal anger, it’s twisted and prickly high in his chest and throat instead of low and burning in his belly, and that’s when he realizes.  He’s not angry.  He’s worried.  And confused and lonely and guilty.  But mostly worried.  Worried about Patrick and whether or not his hunter buddies chewed him out for hanging around a vamp.  Worried about Zoe and if she’s actually okay, if she’s actually healed, or if she’ll burst into flame at any moment.  Worried about Ryan and his stupid little emotional speech.  Worried about fucking Ray and his want to return to the Clandestines.  He’s even worried about himself, about how the sense of order and routine he’s built up over the last few years is crumbling and he’s enjoying the unravel because at least something is happening—at least he  _ feels _ .

God, he cares too much.  About himself and others, even when he doesn’t want to.  He doesn’t want to know how they’re doing but he can’t help but wonder if they’re okay.  He—fuck.  Why can’t he just not care?  It would be so much easier.

Pete reaches up to tug at his hair, pull it down in front of his eyes as if that will help him hide away from the world.  Honestly, what the actual fucking fuck.  Why does feeling things have to be so difficult?  Sometimes he wishes that the vampire thing came with complete apathy, so that he could match the things he can’t physically do anymore with things he can’t mentally do either.

Pete doesn’t have on a watch, but he knows what time it is anyway.  Just past midnight.  His roommates he doesn't expect back until almost morning, and he knows he probably won’t get to see Patrick again this evening, even if he does go back to SCHA.  Pete doesn’t know what to do.

Unsure of himself, more unsure than he’s been in a while—although also more grounded—he rises to his feet.  The apartment seems small, muted, like it only really comes to life when there are people  _ living _ in it.  He doesn’t want to look at it, but Pete thinks that if he were to leave he wouldn’t have the energy—or maybe just the motivation—to come back.  Since he doesn’t really want to die that doesn’t leave a lot of options.

Without fully realizing what he’s doing, Pete finds himself in his bedroom, crawling into his seldom-used bed, knocking all the random shit on it to the floor.  He curls tight under the covers, drawing his legs up to his chest, shoes still on.  Even if it won’t make him warm the position still makes him feel better.  Pete tucks his head into the crook of his elbow one last time to breathe in the smell of Patrick, closes his eyes and, for the first time in years, sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry. I feel like this didn't really go anywhere. I was going to keep going and resolve the last cliff hanger but the chapter would have been WAYYY too long and it's been so long since I've posted I thought I should give you all this. Leave a comment if you feel so inclined. :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't edited this literally at all so I'm sorry if it's awkward and terrible (which I'm sure it is). I also feel like I can't write action sequences so tell me what you think of that please and thank. Enjoy the best you can haha.

Pete wakes up the next evening just as the sun is going down the feeling of multiple sets of eyes boring into the back of his head.  He sits up, quick and defensive, a little disoriented.  Or maybe a lot disoriented, because he thinks he sees five people in his room, not three, which would be crazy, except—

Except this is Ryan, Ray, and Zoe, so of course they’ve “recruited” new people.

“Who’re you?” Pete demands, surprised at the sleepy slur of his words.  Even when he was human he never felt this well-rested, and he hadn’t even technically been asleep.

Zoe clears her throat, but Ryan is the one who finally speaks.  “I, uh, this is Jon.  He was a Clandestine, like us.”  The indicated vampire raises a hand in a lazy half-wave and—wait, is he wearing _flip flops?_

“Are you wearing flip flops?” Pete blurts before he can stop himself because, really?  Flip flops?

Ryan winces but Jon just chuckles, low and lazy.  Is everything he does lazy-looking?  “Yeah.  And you won’t see me in anything else, ever.”

Pete can do nothing but stare, and maybe he needs to get his priorities straight, but this guy is wearing flip flops and he can’t seem to get past that.

"And, this is...sorry, what was your name again?" Zoe asks the fifth person in the room, a girl that, now that Pete’s paying attention, he instantly recognizes as Dandy by her clothing and the way she overwhelmingly smells of William Beckett.  Pete realizes now just how strong the Dandy scent is—even though Jon has presumably just left his gang, the smell of Clandestine is faint on him.  This girl practically reeks.

“Lynn,” she says, and although her lilting voice is soft and sweet, she sounds tough, like she can take care of herself.  She looks tough too, with long hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, a determined look in the set of her mouth.

“Right,” Zoe says to fill the silence.  “She was a Dandy,” she adds unnecessarily.

“Why are they here?” Pete queries, tired.  Swinging his feet out from underneath the covers and standing, he realizes that he feels great, stronger and more alert than he has in a long time.  Maybe the “sleep” _did_ do him good.

Ryan shares a gleeful look with Jon.  “They’re here to join us,” he explains happily.  “We can find them hoodies tonight.”

“We don’t have to do that,” Pete protests weakly, but is ignored.

Ray sets a large hand on Lynn’s shoulder.  “She’s here to give us information on the Dandies, since it turns out _someone_ ”—he gives Pete a glare—“apparently has no idea how they operate.”

Pete bristles, a fiery response ready on his tongue.

“Be glad you don’t,” Lynn mutters darkly, beating Pete to speaking.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asks, going still.  “I mean, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

Lynn gives a tired laugh.  “It wasn’t.  Things were great up until that bastard Urie showed up.”

Even Jon’s laid-back expression goes sour at the name.  Pete just feels lost.  “Brendon?  I mean, yeah, he can be kind of an ass, but he’s tolerable once you get used...what?”  He breaks off at the stares he’s receiving, even more intense than the ones he’d woken up to.

“I thought you had told Ryan you’d never been a Dandy,” Ray growls, oddly angry.

“He wasn’t,” Lynn confirms, her eyes slicing through Pete.

“She how do you know Urie?” Jon asks, still staring at Pete distastefully.

“I...I knew him.  Before—before,” Pete stutters.

“Before?” Ryan presses, unusually interested-looking now that they’re talking about Brendon.

“When we were human,” Pete clarifies, awkward.  “Can—can we take this into the other room?”  He feels oddly vulnerable in his bedroom, with the covers undone and his hair still messy.  No one moves.

Instead, the room descends into a stunned silence.  Pete feels supremely uncomfortable.

“You—what?” Lynn finally squacks, flapping her hands.  She takes a few steps away from Pete, almost fearfully.  “You were _friends_ with that—with that _monster?_ ”

“I—well.”  Pete swallows, taking an almost subconscious step back.  “He was just a dorky sixteen-year-old then who liked Capri Sun way too much.  He wasn’t evil, and he sure as hell wasn’t a monster.  Brendon, he—well, he was my friend.  The only one I really had.  I thought…” he takes a breath.  “I thought all those rumors were just exaggerated, about who he had become.  I didn’t think…”  He trails off, something tight in his chest.

The other vampires seem dumbstruck.  “What?” Lynn chokes, apparently the only one capable of speech at the moment.  “What the _fuck!?_ ”

“Look,” Pete says nervously.  “I don’t know what kind of fucked-up shit Brendon has done since I knew him, but I haven’t been a part of it, okay?”

Lynn’s expression is guarded.  “You don’t know.  You don’t... _know_ .  Well, let me tell you, Pete, what you do not know.”  She moves close, gets in his personal space.  “What you don’t know is that Urie puts everyone under his thumb and presses down until we can’t move.  He compels us all into doing what _he_ wants.  Not even Beckett can keep ahold of him.  He may have been a bit cruel sometimes.  He may have been delusional with power, but Urie—he’s fucking _drunk_ on it.  My family, my home, was turned into a place where I no longer felt safe.”  Her lilting voice cracks.  “You don’t understand how terrifying my last few weeks were, because he _knew_.  He knew I was unhappy.  He was just waiting for an excuse to kill me.  I had—I had to get out of there before—before I—”  She breaks off, hoarse.

For a moment, no one moves.  Then Pete feels weak words crawling up his throat.  “I—I’m sorry.”  He can’t fucking do anything right, can he?  God, they don’t need him.  He tries to do, to do _something_ , anything, to hold his ground or try to understand and—and it’s impossible.  He’s incapable of doing anything right.  He’s worthless.  Something scratchy builds in the back of his throat.  He feels guilty for resting, guilting for thinking that taking any time for himself was a good idea.  He doesn’t deserve happiness, or the people that make him feel better.  He doesn’t—he doesn’t deserve Patrick.

When it becomes obvious Lynn either can’t or won’t say anything else, Ryan speaks up.  “So no, you don’t understand,” he says, clearly referring to their conversation last night.

Pete is trapped in his own skin; it’s too tight, suffocating him even though he doesn’t need to breathe.  “I don’t,” he agrees, choking on his words.  “I—I need to leave.  I need some air.”  He doesn’t know why he’s panicking.  All he knows is that guilt is flooding his lungs and he’s drowning, fucking drowning in it.

He tries to push past the vampires still in his room, but they’re blocking the door.  Ryan reaches out to him, worry translated in the purse of his lips.  “Pete?”

“No,” Pete gasps, an animal cornered and afraid.  He feels the vampire part of his mind, the part that’s more animal than human, taking over and doesn’t do anything to stop it.  “Let me go.  I’ll be back I just—can’t—I’m—sorry—”

Even Ray manages to look concerned.  Lynn trades a glance with Jon, asking _what the hell are we doing here_ through the look.

“I’ll be back,” Pete babbles, and he feels awake and _aware_ and suddenly all the shit he’s ever done is crashing back down on him, all the people he’s hurt and maybe killed, the awfulness of realizing that because he felt good when he was around Patrick he’s forgotten about them, pushed them to the back of his mind like he deserves to be happy.  He doesn’t deserve to be happy.  He’s a monster.  He’s killed people—probably.  “I’ll be back, I promise, I’ll be back.  I need—”  Pete forces himself to swallow and attempts to corral his galloping thoughts.  “I just need some air, some space to think.  I’m not—I’m not abandoning you just—just let me go.  Please.”

God, how could he ever think he was okay?  That he was anywhere near a good person?  That he was anything worth being around, worth fighting for?  Worth staying up and fighting vampires with?  Giving up blood for?  He’s—he’s really not.

No one speaks, but Zoe steps to the side, drawing Ray with her, fingers interlaced with the taller vampire’s.  “We’re not holding you back,” she whispers, lips barely moving.  Ryan glances at her in surprise but doesn’t say anything.  Ray is all tense lines and clenched jaw, and the newbies just look lost.

Pete gets the fuck out of there.

* * *

It’s not until he’s on the roof of Sixteen Candles Hunters’ Agency that Pete realizes that’s where he had been heading.  He hauls himself on the roof, shaky and spastic, energized and exhausted all at once, his mind too-clear and too-awake and too-rested.  This is what he gets of trying to give himself nice things.

Pete collapses to the ground, face scraping against the rough roofing.  He doesn’t care.  Any second now, Patrick will be out here and he’ll be worried, and if Pete’s lucky he’ll gather up Pete in his arms and k—and _hug_ all of his worries away.

But the seconds stretch out into minutes and there’s no Patrick.  Pete’s skin has lost that tight feeling he gets when he goes out too close to sunset, but now something else settles mean and smug against his bones.   _Patrick’s avoiding you_ , it whispers, and it’s probably right.   _He knows how awful you are and can’t stand you anymore.  He probably didn’t even leave a note—didn’t want to give you any satisfaction because you don’t deserve any._

Rather than make Pete feel worse though, the voice is what finally convinces him to push himself to his knees and start moving.  Note.  A note.  Maybe Patrick left a note, maybe he wants to meet him somewhere.

Maybe Pete can convince him to drop his plans and just hold him instead.

Pete’s fingers scrape roughly on the bricks with clumsy and panicky movements.  He’s not—he’s not focusing.  The hiding place is several feet down.

Pete nearly falls over himself getting there, shoving his fingers around the slip of paper and yanking.  It tears when he pulls it out, a sharp ripping sound stabbing at Pete’s ears like failure.  His throat closes up because _fuck_ that was Patrick’s note and he just fucking ruined it, but he can’t think about that much more because then he starts reading it, holding the two halfs together gently.

_Pete—_

_Don’t freak out.  We’re just going out on an_ _anonom_ _anonymous tip we got about some Cland vamps on the outskirts of town, up on the hill overlooking the city.  It shouldn’t take long so I’ll be back soon.  See you then._

_—Patrick_

It’s short, doesn’t say anything that should be cause for alarm.  The fact that Patrick even knew to leave this, knew that Pete _would_ freak out if he didn’t have assurance that Patrick was okay, is amazing.  Shivers still run under Pete’s skin anyway.  Something doesn’t sit right with him.  It seems—he doesn’t know what it seems like.  That it’s too convenient?  No, it’s just.  Just.

Maybe he’s still off-kilter.  Seeing too much into things.  Still, Pete thinks it can’t hurt to try to find Patrick and see what he’s up to.  Nothing else is going to make him feel any better, anyway.  He can’t go back to his apartment, not right now, not for a while, and sitting around waiting on the roof of a hunting agency while there are still hunters inside—none of them the only one that _won’t_ kill him on sight—won’t help either.

Again, Pete doesn’t even know his body has made a decision until he’s already moved.  Once he realizes though, Pete pushes himself harder, the strain on his muscles helping pull him back together.  It takes several minutes, but eventually Pete finds himself on the outskirts of town, realizing he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going.  He stops, hair windblown and tangled, and lets the quiet catch up to him.  Without the pounding of his feet on pavement or the rush of air past his ears, it’s too silent.  Pete bites back a choked-off noise and decides that, fine, if he can’t find Patrick in the first place he looks then he’ll just have to keep looking.

But then Pete actually stops and thinks about what he’s doing and realizes he _does_ know where he’s going.  “The hill overlooking the city” could mean a lot of places if you didn’t know Chicago.  There’s only one hill called _the hill_ though, a popular spot for couples to drive up to together during the early morning or evening before it gets dark; a few brave—or maybe stupid—souls even head up there at night.

Pete doesn’t think twice about whether he might be right or wrong, just takes off as fast as he can.  The irrational fear from before, the thought that something might be wrong, winds back around Pete’s throat until he’s nearly panicking.   _Patrick’s fine_ , he tries to convince himself, _he can take care of himself.  It hasn’t even been night for like an hour yet nothing terrible could have happened already._  But what if is has?  God, Pete hates being so paranoid.  He has nothing to go on but the nausea rolling in his intestines.

When Pete finally approaches the hill, his footsteps slow.  The air—it smells heavily of Clandestine.  Which—Patrick had said they were going out on a hunt, so of course it’s going to smell like vampires.  It’s just that it’s so overwhelming, and Pete can hardly catch the scent of the hunters under it.

And then—oh god, and then—there’s the sharp tang of blood, heavy and cold and of vampires.  Something is wrong, though, terribly wrong, and Pete darts forward, shoving his way through bushes and tripping over his own feet in his haste and nearly falling.  He’s just in time to watch as Patrick is shoved to the ground and a vampire leans over him, fangs bared and knife at his throat, and—is that Travis fucking McCoy?

It is.  Pete recognizes his smell, a more concentrated form of the regular Clandestine scent.  He’s tall and tattooed and looks tough, like he could rip him in half, but Pete doesn’t think twice when he leaps at the two of them, Patrick’s name tearing from his throat like a battle cry.

Pete barrels into McCoy, knocking him several yards away from Patrick, instantly sliding into the vespertilio state.  The impact jabs McCoy’s elbow into Pete’s stomach, and the blow leaves him dazed for a moment.  McCoy struggles to get his feet under him, blood still dribbling from the closing wound in his throat.  “Where the—what the fuc—” Pete doesn’t let him finish, swinging his fist and cracking McCoy across the jaw.  It’s a terrible feeling of deja vu when Pete watches as McCoy’s jaw cracks and dislocates, blood streaming from his mouth around his strangled curses.  He prods at his face with his fingers, trying to shove it back into place, but another Clandestine jumps on Pete before he can see if he’s successful.

The Clandestine wraps her arms around Pete’s neck, hands poised on either side of his head and ready to twist, but Pete reaches behind him to fling her over his back, yanking on her arm until it breaks.  Her screech is piercing and jerks the rest of the people into action.

Only now does Pete notice the three other hunters.  Three other vampires move to circle Pete and leave them minimally guarded.  The girl, brown wig come askew to reveal her short blonde hair, looks tough as nails and proves it when she reaches up to pull a pin from her hair and jab it into the side of a Clandestine’s neck.  The vampire gurgles and crumples to the ground, and the hunter pulls a small wooden rod from the folds of her jacket and stabs it into their chest.  The Clandestine dissolves into dust that sparks into flame when it reaches the ground.

As Pete watches, she turns to help free her friends while the other Clandestines attack, but his attention is pulled away by the vampires who reach to fight him.

One takes a swing at Pete; he sees the blow coming from a mile away and dodges it with ease before returning with his own punch to the gut.  He lashes out at another Clandestine that gets too close before two jump on him at once and bring him down to his knees.  Pete snarls at them and struggles to throw off their weight.

Teeth at his neck, fangs scraping the skin but unable to sink in before Pete wriggles away.  Someone manages to bite his right hand, the puncture sharp and painful.  They bite hard enough that their teeth meet again between the bones of his hand, and Pete screams with the pain, legs buckling beneath him.  It’s—he can’t—there’s too many of them.  Valiantly, Pete continues to try to fight them off, but it’s one to fucking eight million or some shit—he can’t be bothered to count them.

Suddenly the blows stop and the teeth pull themselves from his hand.  The Clands back away from Pete, a few loping off to help their fellow gang members subdue the hunters, who are still fighting strong.  Pete pushes himself off the ground, blood snaking down his fingers and dripping to the grass.  His hand feels tingly and weak, the muscles wrecked.  A bone clicks back into place.  Pete lifts his eyes, hair messy and falling into his eyes, and glares around.  “You call yourself hunters?” he snaps, angry at them for not fucking protecting Patrick, for walking into a trap.

“Yes, apparently,” comes a dry voice.  McCoy stands before him, drying blood staining the front of his shirt and flecking the gold necklace he’s wearing.  His expression is murderous.  “Who the hell are you?” he spits, apparently unconcerned by the shrieking in the background as the hunters try to kill more of his gang.

“Does it matter?” Pete fires back, clenching his hand and willing it to heal faster.

McCoy’s eyes flash before flooding black.  “Yes.  I want to know your name so I can have the pleasure of knowing who I’m killing.”  He lunges for Pete before he can say anything else, all long limbs and quick movements, and Pete’s lying on his back in the grass before he can blink.

McCoy leers down over Pete and draws back a hand.  Before he can strike, Pete bucks his hips up, pushing off the ground with his legs to throw McCoy off over his head.

Pete struggles to regain the advantage, but McCoy is back and smashing into him, the force of his impact sending them both rolling, a tangle of thrashing limbs and snapping jaws.

For a few seconds neither one of them manages to gain the advantage, but then they crash into the side of what Pete guesses is the hunters’ car and Pete’s small size finally comes in handy.  McCoy’s grip loosens marginally, and Pete is able to draw up his legs between them and kick the other vampire away with all his might.  The dark-skinned vampire’s ribs give and Pete feels nothing but satisfied with his howl of pain.

Then—a shout, his name, a familiar voice.  “ _Pete!_ ” Patrick cries, desperate and surprised.

“Patrick,” Pete croaks, whipping his head around to see that his friend is wrestling with another Clandestine—and losing.  Pete’s at his side, abandoning his fight with McCoy, before he has time to think twice, but the other vampire takes advantage of Patrick’s distraction and buries his fangs into Patrick’s skin at the juncture of jaw and neck.

The noise that erupts from Pete’s mouth is inhuman, deadly and dangerous and dark.  The Clandestine doesn’t even have time to look up before Pete takes his head in his hands and fucking _rips the motherfucking thing off_.  The body crumbles beneath his hands in much the same way that Patrick crumbles to the ground.

Just as suddenly as he had entered it, Pete feels himself burst out of the vespertilio state, falling to his knees next to Patrick and reaching out with shaky hands to cradle his face.  “Patrick,” Pete whispers.

Patrick’s frantic eyes—his bluegreenbrown eyes—meet Pete’s.  “I’m…” he rasps.  “...o...kay.”

Pete pulls Patrick’s torso up into his lap, curling his body around him protectively.  He doesn’t care about the fighting raging on around them, or the fact that McCoy seems to think the battle isn’t worth it anymore and retreats.  All he cares is that Patrick is here, in his arms.  That Patrick is _bleeding_.

The wound on Patrick’s neck is messy and deep, oozing blood like tears.  Tentatively, Pete presses his fingers to it, to try to stop the flow.  Hurt and hungry as he is, the blood doesn’t for a moment tempt him.  But there’s too much—there’s too much of it.

Without thinking, Pete ducks his head a presses a sloppy kiss to Patrick’s neck, licking at the wound to heal it.  He’s only half sure that he’s imagining the shiver that shudders through Patrick’s body at the feel of Pete’s tongue to his skin.

After a few seconds, Pete pulls away marginally, his movements slow.  Patrick turns his head at the last moment so that his lips gaze Pete’s jaw, and Pete freezes, staring at Patrick’s upside down face.  The hunter gazes steadily back, eyes clear and oh so beautiful, and Pete thinks he might do something stupid if someone doesn’t—

“Oh my g—Patrick!”

Pete feels something thud into his back, heavy and splintering from the force of the blow.  It’s too far center to pierce his heart but it’s still dangerous anyway.  Pete coughs once, blood spraying from his lips and dribbling down to splatter on Patrick’s face.  Patrick jerks away, lips pressed thinly together and wiping furiously at his mouth with his sleeve, movements weak.

“Got him!” a voice crows.  Several footsteps make their way over to where Pete and Patrick are lying.

“Fucker’s still alive,” hisses the girl from before, the dangerous-looking one.

“Not for long,” says a third voice.

Patrick jerks into action, falling ungracefully on top of Pete when the other hunters come closer.  “No,” he begs, “no.”

“Patrick,” says the third voice, the light but tough one that sounds like butterflies wearing battle armor.  “Get away from the vampire.  He was just at your neck.  You have bite marks.”

Someone sucks in a breath; Pete turns his suddenly sleepy head just enough to see that it’s the one with the curly hair.  “Patrick,” he says, “Patrick.  Are you alright?”

“Move out of the way, Patrick,” the girl says tersely.

“No,” Patrick repeats.  “Please, don’t hurt him.”

Butterfly Voice pulls a stake out from somewhere—Pete’s not paying enough attention to know where it comes from.  “We have to.  Patrick, it’s just a vampire.”

“It’s _Pete_ ,” Patrick all-but chokes.  “Just—wait.  We don’t have to kill him.”

“Patrick,” Curly Hair sighs, but Patrick cuts him off.

“Joe, wait.  We can like, use him for information, or interrogate him or some shit, or just use him or whatever the fuck you want but you _can’t kill him!_ ”  His voice grows more hysterical as he goes, cracking over his last few words.  Curly Hair looks skeptical, and Patrick turns to the girl, hands splayed over Pete’s back as if that will do anything to protect him.  “Vienna,” he whispers, the quiet pitch of his voice a sharp contrast to his earlier yells, “don’t kill him.  I need—we need him alive.”

The girl—Vienna—narrows her eyes.  “Fine,” she agrees curtly, and her two companions stare at her.

“What?” Butterfly Voice asks, aghast.

“It obviously means a lot to Patrick,” she says, her voice softening over his name.  The feeling that sparks in Pete’s chest is definitely not jealousy.  Definitely not.

“Thank you,” Patrick creaks, bringing a hand up to his bite wound and wincing.  “Thank you.”

Pete shifts, forcing himself to move, to get closer to Patrick.  He wants to see what’s going on, too.

“Can we...like, knock him out?” asks a very awkward Joe.

“Not like you can a human,” Vienna replies.  Her hand snakes towards the waistband of her jeans.  “You just have to incapacitate them.”

Pete feels Patrick tense up all over.  “Vienna, wait, don’t—”

“I’m not going to kill him,” she snaps, eyes distrustful.  She levels her gun at Pete and flicks off the safety.  “But that’s about all I won’t do.”  And she fires two short shots in quick succession at Pete’s forehead.  It’s a little hard for Pete to pay attention after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowow. Another amazing cliffhanger compliments of yours truly. What do you think is going to happen next? I'd love to hear your opinions!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the formatting is weird I apologize. It was posted and mostly written from my phone. Enjoy!

 

Joe winces at the distressed cry that tumbles out of Patrick's mouth when Vienna fires upon the vampire.  _It doesn't make sense_ , he thinks as Patrick falls all over him, hands running protectively over his sides and pulling the stake out of his back.  It doesn't make sense.  Why does this vampire mean so much?  And how does he know him?

"We need to restrain him," Vienna says, voice tight.  Andy walks over to dig around in the Impala, carefully avoiding the broken glass and returning with the tow rope they keep in all their vehicles.  It's a heavy-duty rope with hooks on the end to connect to the hitches of cars.  Good as it is for pulling automobiles out of anywhere they might get stuck, it also comes in handy for emergency situations such as this.

Andy pulls up next to Patrick, who reaches out with trembling hands for the restraint, but Andy shakes his head.  "You're in no state to do this right now," Andy murmurs.

Patrick looks petrified, and Joe steps forward and touches his fingers lightly to Andy's arm.  "I'll do it," he says softly, taking the chain.  Andy nods and Patrick looks grateful.

Joe kneels next to the vampire, the rope coiling at his feet, and roughly pulls him around so he can reach his hands.  Patrick sucks in a breath but doesn't say anything as Joe yanks the vampire's hands together and ties him up, pulling up his legs and tying them together so that his ankles and wrists are connected by about three feet of rope behind his back.  He'll be unable to move, unable to bite through the restraints.  Unable to escape.

"We should put him with us," Patrick suggests, his voice wobbly but firmer than it had been a moment ago.

"The Impala has more room," Vienna protests, her eyes tracking every weak movement the vampire makes.  His eyes flutter half-opened and unseeing, blood staining his clothes and his ashen skin, matting his black hair into clumps that stick to his forehead.  His fingers twitch when Patrick's touch ghosts over his wrist.  Joe tears his eyes away.  "You have all the shit we didn't want to put in it so the vampires wouldn't be suspicious.  Plus you're hurt; I don't think you'd be able to defend yourself if it decided to attack."

"He's in no state to attack anyone," Patrick retorts, eyes flashing.  "So why does it matter?"

"Honestly I just don't want you to be around it anymore than necessary," Vienna fires back.  "So let it go and we'll have it ride with us, yeah?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Patrick says around clenched teeth, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring Joe's protests when he wobbles a bit.  "I don't know why it's a big deal to you."

"And I don't know why it's a big deal to you," Vienna replies.  "Just let it ride in the fucking Impala with me and Andy, Patrick."

"Him," Patrick says firmly.

"What?"

"He's not an it."  Patrick looks uncharacteristically cross.

Vienna bristles, but Andy steps in before anyone gets any angrier.  "I don't think Joe would mind too much if he were to drive back by himself," he suggests.  When he looks over at Joe, he shakes his head.  No, that's fine.  Whatever they need to do to help Patrick.  "That way Patrick could ride with us, too."

"Fine," Vienna sighs, and she reaches out to pull Patrick into a hug.  "I'm sorry I'm such an asshole," she huffs.

Patrick squeezes back before letting go.  "It's alright.  I know you can't help it."  He's smiling faintly now, which Joe is glad to see.

"I don't want to put him in the trunk because then we can't keep an eye on him," Andy says, forever the sensible one.  "But we can put him in the back with—"

"Me," Vienna interrupts.  "Patrick can ride in the front with you."

"Vienna," Patrick protests, but she's having none of that.

"No," she says flatly.  "Patrick, I'm not doing this just to piss you off or because I want to.  I'm doing because I know you and I know that you don't like vampires.  I don't want you to be around... _him_."

Patrick bites his lip and doesn't say anything.

"We should go," Joe suggests, breaking the sudden silence.  "I don't think it's likely, but McCoy could come back.  And we really shouldn't be here if he does."

"Joe's right," Andy agrees.  "Let's get out of here."

And that's how Joe ends up driving back to Sixteen Candles alone, the car silent and claustrophobic.  Joe's fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, unaware that Patrick's hands had done the same thing a few nights ago with the very vampire they had just captured sitting next to him in the car.  He can't get the image of Patrick's hands brushing gently over the vamp's body out of his head, and he almost misses his turn.  It's really not a secret that Joe likes Patrick, has ever since they were in high school and only working for SCHA part time.

But...it's hard.  Joe doesn't think that Patrick could like him back, even if he wanted to.  He's only ever dated girls, and ever since Winona...well, he hasn't seemed interested in anyone.  He took her death hard—still does.

Joe remembers once, when he had convinced Patrick to go to some Christmas party with him, and he was drunk and stupid, and he'd tried to kiss him.  There hadn't even been the terrible excuse of mistletoe to play it off.  Patrick had pushed him away, glaringly sober, shaking his head.  "I'm not g—I'm sorry," he'd said, and instantly Joe had felt like shit.  It wasn't Patrick's job to be sorry, not for the shit Joe did.  They left pretty soon after that, and the next day Joe had acted like nothing had happened, and Patrick went along with it.

Joe turns into the back entrance of SCHA after punching in the keycode for the gate to the parking lot, watching out of the rearview mirror as the Impala does the same.  He gets out of the car and slams the door too hard, shivering in the night.  God, he hates vampires, always feels skittish in the dark.

Patrick is already out of the car, but as he walks around the front he has to stop and lean on the hood of the car, hissing when his hand comes into contact with the hot metal.  Joe takes a few hesitant steps in his direction.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Patrick says, snappish, but his expression softens when he sees Joe's face.  "I'm fine.  Sorry.  I'm just—stressed, I guess."

Vienna practically kicks open the door.  "Someone get this fucking thing off me.  I'm sick of it."  She dumps the vampire out onto the ground, a mess of limbs and skinny jeans, and Joe watches as Patrick tenses up.  He lays a hand on Patrick's arm, surprised when his friend doesn't try to brush him away like he has so often lately.

"Vienna," Joe says, tired.  "He's tied up, been shot several times, and staked in the back.  There's no need to be unnecessarily cruel to him."

Vienna looks at Joe like he's crazy as she unfolds herself from her seat.  "He's a vampire," she says, like that's all the explaination needed.

But it's worth it when Patrick smiles thankfully him.  "Let's just go inside," he says tiredly.

Andy reaches down and yanks the vamp to his feet, half dragging, half carrying him.  Vienna strides ahead and taps out the code to open the back entrance, holding open the door.  They all file inside, Patrick muttering something about a flickering light above them and how it needs to be replaced.

When they reach the main training room, Andy turns to Patrick expectantly.  "Where exactly are we going to put him?"

Patrick doesn't waver, like he's been thinking about it.  "We can put him in the old office.  We don't use it anymore, and it's doesn't have any windows."

Andy nods and pulls the vamp along, Patrick trailing behind him anxiously.

"Patrick, wait," Vienna calls, and he turns back at her words.  "I'll help Andy.  You should have Joe look you over and make sure you're okay."

"That's not nec—"

"I won't hurt him," she interrupts, expression soft.  Sometimes Joe is amazed at their relationship, the way they can go from arguing and angry to friendly and supportive.  Patrick has always been like a little brother to her, and she's always been so protective of him.  "I'm just checking on you."

After a tense moment, Patrick nods and steps aside, letting Vienna pass by him.  He turns his tired gaze to Joe, who starts walking to the locker room off the side of the training area.  Patrick follows, his normally quiet tread loud with fatigue.

He leans against the lockers as Joe sets down all the supplies he'd carried back inside.  Joe straightens up and looks tentatively over Patrick.  He's never really gotten to do this before, just look and not be afraid of being caught.

Patrick's clothes are covered in blood, like the rest of the hunters' are, but what has Joe worried is the wounds that may be underneath them, the way Patrick is hunched into himself with his arms wrapped around his middle.

"Does anything hurt?" he asks, pulling out the first aid kit.

"Everything," Patrick mumbles.

Joe looks up.  "What?  Really?"

Patrick shakes his head, movements slow.  "No, I'm...I'm fine.  Just achey."

"There's a lot of blood on you," Joe observes.

Patrick shrugs.  Joe tracks his movements, but the motion doesn't seem to cause Patrick any discomfort, and he seems to be breathing okay, so he relaxes slightly.  "There's a lot of blood on _you_."

"Touché."

"I guess you want to check me out anyway," Patrick says, voice pitched low.

Joe swallows.  He already does that anyway, but...not like how Patrick means, so.  "Yeah."

Patrick's hands go for the hem of his shirt.  He hisses as he peels it off, the dried blood sticking to his skin, the muscles in his back taut.  Joe has to bite his cheek and look away.  God, he's so gay.

"Is it bad?" Patrick asks, twisting to try and see.

Joe is glad for the excuse to drink in the sight of Patrick's naked torso.  "Well, underneath all the blood you look pretty okay.  Just some nasty bruising."  He walks around to Patrick's front, his fingers hovering at the edge of his jaw before he thinks _fuck it_ and lifts his chin, focusing on the wound on his neck.  "That doesn't look bad, either," he murmurs.

Patrick goes still under his hands, shivering slightly.  "Yeah," he coughs, throat suddenly dry.  He swallows, and Joe can feel the movement under the pads of his fingers.  "Vampire saliva has a lot of healing properties."

"Yeah," Joe agrees, not removing his hand.  He already knew that, of course, but—whatever.

"I should—I should probably get cleaned up if.  If you think I'm fine, or whatever."

Joe lets his hand drop and takes a step back.  "Yeah, you're fine."  He's not really the medical expert of the group—that would be Mary, the doctor they have working for them part time, although she's not here right now—but he knows enough to recognize when someone's fucked up, and Patrick isn't.

"Right," Patrick says vaguely.  "So um."

"You might want to start with a shower.  Those generally work pretty well," Joe jokes.

Patrick is silent a moment.  "Joe," he murmurs at last, a soft word on soft lips.

"Patrick," Joe replies, head reeling, spinning with thought and emotion and _holy shit the way Patrick is looking at him_.

Patrick rubs a hand on one bare arm.  "Thank you.  For...everything.  You're a pretty great—you're a really great friend."

Joe feels like he's been punched in the gut, and the feeling is somehow good and bad at the same time.  "Not half as good as you are," he returns, voice maybe too sincere.

Patrick's already ruddy face gets redder.  "I'm not that great."

"You're right—you're _amazing_."

Patrick shakes his head, but there's a faint smile ghosting over his lips.  He takes a step forward and envelops Joe in a hug, squeezing tight.  His fingers pull at the fabric of Joe's jacket.

Joe relaxes into the embrace.  One of his hands splays over Patrick's bare back, feels the muscle moving there, and the other wraps around to rest on his ribs.  Patrick presses his face into Joe's chest, his breaths shaking.

"Patrick?" Joe asks, concerned.

"M'fine," his friend insists.  He pulls away and pulls himself together.  Joe lets go reluctantly.  "I just—I'm sorry."

_There he goes with the "I'm sorry" again._ "It's fine," Joe reassures him.

"I'm going to go get cleaned up," Patrick mutters, walking down the row of lockers to where his office—and his things—are located.  Being the man in charge of a hunting agency definitely has its perks.

"Alright," Joe says after him.  "Have fun.  Don't talk to strangers."

Patrick looks back at him over his shoulder, obviously holding back a laugh.  "I'll do my best."

When he's out of sight, Joe rests his forehead on the locker nearest him.  He's so gay for Patrick Stumph.

A few minutes later, Joe enters into the bathroom.  The shower on the end is running, presumably Patrick.  Joe cleans himself slowly, completely failing at convincing himself not to jerk himself off in the shower.  He bites at the flesh of his thumb on his left hand, keeping all sound down except for the quick huffing breaths in and out of his nose.  Years of communal bathrooms have made him an expert.

Even though he takes longer than normal, Patrick's shower is still running when Joe steps out of his, towel wrapped around his waist.  Joe stares at himself in the mirror, the curly hair falling flat over his eyes, the scars over his torso.  He doesn't know what he's looking at, or for, but so intent on his studying is he that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Patrick touches him on the shoulder.

"Are you alright?" the red-blond asks, concerned.

He looks breathtaking, hair fluffed up and half dry, water shining in the hollow of his throat between his collarbones, drops sliding down his chest and soaking into the towel on his hips.  Joe takes half a step away because Patrick, like this, he's too much.

"Yeah," Joe says, and he desperately tries to keep his voice from sounding tight or turned on.  "I'm good."  They keep telling each other that, but Joe's sure that neither of them really are.

Patrick looks unsure, but he doesn't press farther.  _Ask me_ , Joe silently begs him.  _Please ask again.  I don't want to keep this all inside but I'll never tell you if you don't ask.  Just ask._   He doesn't.  Just turns away with a quiet "Okay" and goes and gets dressed.  Joe does the same, and when they exit the bathroom at the same time, Joe expects it to awkward, for them to avoid looking at each other.  Patrick surprises him by making eye contact and smiling, softer than he ever has before.  Joe can't fully convince himself that it means nothing, even though it does.  Probably.

Vienna is leaning against the wall outside the men's bathroom, picking at her nails with a knife.  Honestly, she couldn't be more cliché if she tried.  She looks up at Joe and smirks, raising her eyebrows at the two of them.  The insinuation is clear.  Joe feels his face go red.  There's nothing—nothing happened.  Or ever will.  Patrick doesn't swing that way, has told him explicitly before that he's not gay.  Doesn't stop Vienna from teasing him mercilessly about it, though.

"If you two are...done, we need to have a meeting.  Figure out what to do about the vamp," she says.

Patrick runs a hand over his face, obviously exhausted.  "Okay. Round up Andy."

Vienna pauses.  "Anyone else?"  Usually Patrick rattles off a whole list of people to have at these kinds of things, being the only one who always knows exactly who is and isn't available or in the building at all times.

Patrick shakes his head.  "Just us four.  You, me, Andy, Joe.  I don't want to involve anyone that we don't need to.  We'll meet in fifteen minutes."

Vienna looks skeptical.  "You got it, boss."

As she walks away, Joe watches out of the corner of his eye as Patrick seems to shrink down into himself, expanding again upon taking a breath.  He slides back into Manager Mode, all traces of soft Patrick gone.  "Let's fucking do this thing," he says.  Joe ignores the wobble in his voice.

"I'm going to go get some coffee—you want some?" Joe offers, not surprised when Patrick shakes his head.

"I'm going to go check on Pete—the vampire," he says.  "Make sure he's oka—that he's secured."

Joe shifts uncomfortably, the good feelings from before evaporating like the water off his skin.  "Right.  I'll meet up with you in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes," Patrick agrees, and walks off to the old office, the barest trace of a limp in his step.

Joe watches him go, some sort of indescribable unsettled feeling in his chest, before he turns and goes to get his coffee.  He's got a meeting he needs to stay awake for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Life and band have been crazy, and I started writing another long thing that's been taking up a lot of time. Now that marching season is over I should have more time though. Hope you liked it, and I'll try to be back as soon as possible. :)
> 
> Also...look out for some action that's going to happen soon. A few more chapters and Part II is over.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah here we go.  It's been fifteen years, as always, but I always pull through with an update.  Sometimes I feel like I over-explain things and get too expositiony, so let me know if you notice anything like that or parts get boring.  Enjoy!

 

The hint of a song buzzing in his ears, fuzzy and organic, the soft sooth of a soulful voice.  Smooth.  Familiar.

Pete struggles up through the layers of consciousness.  Someone...is someone singing?  Whoever it is, they're really fucking good.

"Hey editor!" they sing under their breath, "I'm undeniable."

God, those words...Pete swears he's heard them somewhere before.

"Hey doctor!  I'm certifiable."

Pete tries to move, but finds he can't.  His left eye cracks open the tiniest bit.  Is that...Patrick?

It is, and it's not until he sings the next bit that Pete realizes where's he heard the words before.  "I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine.  What a match, I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet."

Those are...those are _his_.  He wrote those.  And Patrick has taken them and made them into something—into something beautiful.  Taken his sorrow and his angst and his confusion and crafted them into a melody that would bring Pete to tears if he could cry.  He's drowning in Patrick's voice, doesn't think he's ever had anyone understand him so well.  Patrick sings the words and they sound just like they felt pouring out of the tips of Pete's fingers, and it's—

"Beau...tiful," he rasps, and the singing stops abruptly.

"Pete?" Patrick asks cautiously.  "Are you...you're awake."  Actually, Pete hadn't even really been asleep, just unaware.  He had been conscious the whole time.  Vampires don't sleep, not really.

Pete struggles to lift his head and finds that he can hardly complete the simple movement.  "I'm—" and suddenly he can't think straight, a wave of nausea washing over him and crashing into his stomach and churning there, clenching up his insides, and it hurts it hurts it hurts, and all Pete can think about is how he's so, _so_ "— _hungry_."  Pete feels his mind slip-sliding away from him, and he fights to keep it under control.  He hasn't been this hungry since—since he first woke up as a vampire, maybe.

"Oh, I, um," Patrick stutters.  "About that—"

All Pete can do is snarl at him, finding the sudden strength to surge towards Patrick.  He's snapped back at the last second by his restraints, but he can feel the metal chains they've pinned him down with creaking, bending under his strength.  Patrick stumbles back, away from him.  "Pete?"

Once he realizes what he's done, Pete feels guilt well up in his chest like blood from a pinprick.  Overcompensating for his other actions, Pete jerks himself backwards, accidentally cracking his head against the wall.  Stars dance across his vision, but it's enough to bring him back to himself.  "Fuck," he swears, shaking his head.

"...Pete?" Patrick's voice is almost a whisper.

Pete jerks his head up.  " _Patrick_.  You need to—I'm starving, literally and I'm—I'm dangerous.  You need to get away—"

"Pete," Patrick repeats, more insistent.  "Shut up and listen to me."

He shuts up and listens to him.

"I know that you don't really like, um, _drinking_ , so I've been working on a substitute.  For um, blood," Patrick explains.

Pete can only stare, the hunger in his bones creeping back up on him.  "What?"

Patrick shifts, and now Pete notices the table set up behind him, the supplies spread out across it.  Patrick scratches at one of his sideburns, his long hair carelessly falling into his eyes.  "Yeah, um, here."  He turns and pulls the pitcher part off a blender, pouring a large measure.  He crinkles his nose at the smell, which hits Pete with full force now that his nose has decided to start working again.  And god, does it _reek_.  "It's made of—well, maybe you should just drink it first."

Pete eyes it warily.  "Really?"  At least it's vaguely red-colored.

Patrick shrugs.  "I dunno man, just try it."  He holds the cup closer to Pete's face, a question.

"I—whatever, let's just do it," Pete mutters.  _Before I do something awful like rip your throat out_ , he adds to himself.

Patrick holds the glass up to Pete's lips and tilts it back, careful to not spill.  Pete takes one sip and promptly spits it the fuck everywhere.  "Oh my fucking—what the hell—it tastes like _shit_ ," he splutters, pulling at the chains again.

"Sorry," Patrick murmurs, sounding sincere.  "I could add some like...I don't know, liquor or something strong like that next time.  If you wanted."

"You're not even twenty-one." Pete laughs, tired.  "Although, that never stopped anyone."

"No," Patrick agrees.  "Less so when you run a vampire-hunting business."  He gives a wry smile.  "You ready to try again and _not_ get this shit everywhere?"  His gaze runs all over Pete's mouth, clearly taking in the mess Pete can feel running down his chin.

"Sure," Pete croaks.  "Maybe if I don't think about it I won't be able," he takes a moment to grit his teeth; hunger pangs _really_ hurt when you're a vampire, especially if you have half-healed gunshot wounds to back them up, "be able to taste it.  As much."

Patrick laughs slightly, a soft huffing sound that Pete finds endlessly endearing.  "Maybe.  If you're lucky."

The second time around, it's still fucking awful, but Pete manages to keep from getting it everywhere.  A bit dribbles down the corners of his mouth, but that can't really be helped, not when he doesn't have use of his arms.

"Not too bad, huh?" Patrick asks.

"It's actually really, _really_ awful," Pete chokes.  "But...I feel better, so I guess it worked.  You going to tell me what was in it now?"

Patrick shrugs in affirmation.  "I mean, sure.  I wasn't even sure if it was going to work, but if you said..."

Pete still feels sluggish, but he can also feel his wounds slowly stitching themselves together, the feeling returning to the ends of his fingers.  "Yeah.  Whatever you did—you're a miracle worker, Trick."

"That's good," Patrick nods.  He sets down the mostly empty cup on the table.  "There's a lot of raw hamburger in it, really bloody stuff.  Figured that'd be the best place to start.  And like, we don't know the most about vampires, since we usually kill them before we so much as say hi, much less become good friends with them, but I have picked up a few things over the years and from my time knowing you.  For instance," he picks up a bottle of murky white liquid, "you need to stay hydrated.  Vamps literally burn up the blood in their system, which is why they turn to dust if they starve to death—or die in general.  They get dried out."  Patrick turns the bottle so Pete can read the label.  "So: coconut water.  Really good for hydration, although those myths that it can completely replace blood are nothing but bullshit."

Pete can't help the laugh; it just seems so ridiculous.  "Coconut water.  Huh."

Patrick shoots him an amused glance.  "Hey, you're alive aren't you?"

"Not really," Pete replies.  "I believe the correct term is 'undead.'"

Patrick throws something small and vaguely round at Pete.  It bounces harmlessly off his chest.  "Shut up," he laughs.

Pete wrinkles his nose, staring at what Patrick had thrown at him.  Good god, does it smell _._   "Is that garlic?" Pete asks.  "Because you should know that it doesn't—"

"Do anything to hurt vampires, I know," Patrick finishes for him.  "But it's low in saturated fat and has a lot of calcium, as well as being really salty—which blood is.  Salty, I mean.  Plus it just seemed appropriate.  You know, feeding garlic to a vampire to help rather than hinder them."  He chuckles lightly.

"That's probably 89% of the reason that stuff tasted like shit," Pete complains.  "Couldn't you have used something else?"

Patrick gives him a withering look.  "Probably, but I had like, three seconds to come up with this, and I wasn't about to leave you alone for a few hours with my employees when all they want is to blow your head off."

"Your—oh."  Sometimes Pete forgot that this kid—and he really is a kid, only nineteen and too young to have gone through the shit Pete guesses he has—is in charge of the vampire hunting agency credited with taking out more vampires than the other few groups in the city put together.

"Yeah," Patrick says, suddenly sounding tired and much too old.  He runs a hand across the wood grain of the table, tracing a whorl with one hand.  They're silent for a moment, until Patrick looks up and continues their conversation, sounding forced and awkward.  "There's also a shit-ton of protein powder, since blood has a lot of protein in it—at least according to the quick internet searches I did—and it's good for you or whatever.  So.  Yeah.  Blend and serve."

"Thank you," Pete says quietly, and he knows Patrick gets that his words are for more than the concoction he's come up with.  It's for everything.

Shifting, Pete grimaces.  His arms ache from being held back by these chains, pulled up and at an awkward angle far enough off the ground so that he can't sit or kneel.  His shoulders creak when he tries to roll them, to stretch out the tension.  Now that he's standing, the strain isn't too bad, but who knows how long it was before he came back to himself, how long he dangled there half off the ground.

Patrick's expression takes on a concerned slant.  "You alright?"

"Just peachy," Pete returns, pulling on the chains until they creak.  He sighs.  "It feels early.  What time is it?"  Feeling Patrick's gaze on him, Pete looks up.  "What?"

"It's like...four."

"Okay yeah, thanks, but _what_."

"What what."

"You're looking at me funny."

"I dunno it's just—weird when you do that."

"Trick I'm going to need a little more than that go off of."

Patrick rubs a thumb on one of his wrists, smoothing it over angry scar tissue, and Pete is reminded again of all the shit that Patrick's gone through that he doesn't know about.  "When you like, breathe."

"When I _breathe?"_ Pete snorts.

"Don't laugh," Patrick mumbles.  "It's just that you'll be so still and not do anything and all of a sudden all this air will just like, come out of or into you and it's...it's disorienting."

"Well how else am I supposed to smell?" Pete returns, relaxing his arms and trying to stretch out the muscles.

Patrick shifts awkwardly.  "It's just.  I don't know.  All my life, vampires have been these terrible monsters, completely inhuman and undeserving of anything but hatred, and now.  Now...I know you."  He takes a breath, studying Pete, eyes lingering over his mouth and raking across his body.  "And you seem so human sometimes that I almost can't stand it," Patrick finishes, his voice quiet.  He seems so open and soft and vulnerable and Pete doesn't know what to do, so he cracks a joke instead of saying anything meaningful.

"Well, if you ever need a reminder I can just smile at you," Pete reminds him, flashing his fangs and tilting his head so that he can feel his grimy hair fall away from his pointed ears.  "Cause I only seem human until you look too close."

Patrick shakes his head.  "That's not—you don't get it."

"Then enlighten me," Pete prompts, sounding more bitter than he intends to, "because believe me, I'd love to feel human again."  _It almost seems possible with you_ , he manages to keep from saying, because they've already established that Patrick isn't—Patrick doesn't want that.  He shifts again, trying to get more comfortable, and his left shoulder pops.  Pete swears.  It isn't dislocated, but it hurts like a motherfucker.

"Oh shit," Patrick says, conversation forgotten, "are you okay?"

Shrugging with one shoulder, Pete says, "Fine.  Just a little uncomfortable."

"Oh," Patrick says, like he's just realized Pete is chained up.  "I can help with that."  He walks over to Pete and starts fiddling with the restraints around his wrists.

"I mean, you don't have to," Pete says, surprised.

Patrick hums thoughtfully in reply, throat buzzing with the vibration.  Pete struggles to focus on his hands instead, which doesn't help.  He has nice hands, strong and calloused but still gentle.  "You've done a lot for me," Patrick murmurs, startling Pete.

"I really haven't.  You're the one that's saved my life.  Three times now, I think," Pete protests.  Patrick is standing so close it's distracting; it's only times like these, when warmth radiates onto him from Patrick, that he realizes how cold he always is.

The binding on Pete's left arm comes undone, and he drops it gratefully, his muscles achy and relieved.  "You've saved me too," Patrick reminds him.

"Once.  Which means I still owe you twice."

Patrick pauses to laugh, reaching up to adjust his hat, resettle it on his head.  "Pete."

"What," Pete says more than asks.

Patrick can do nothing but smile, the expression soft and a little bit sad.  "Nothing."

"You should sing more," Pete says from nowhere.

Patrick stills.  "You...heard that?"

"I'm pretty sure I could hear _that_ from beyond the grave," Pete declares.  "Play it at my funeral and I'll burst out of my coffin alive and well."

He expects Patrick to laugh, or to snort in surprise.  What he does not expect is for him to make a strangled sound in the back of his throat and look terrified.  "You weren't supposed—"

"Patrick," Pete interrupts, reaching out with his left hand to catch Patrick by the wrist.  "Patrick.  It's okay.  It was wonderful."

"But—I didn't even write it, it was all yours, and—"

"Patrick," Pete repeats, "shut up."

Patrick shuts up, his gaze flickering over Pete's features before landing on his mouth again.

"I wouldn't lie to you," Pete promises.  "And I don't think anyone could have done anything more beautiful with some shit poetry I threw around the city like the emo I am."

"It's not shit," Patrick mumbles, looking away.

"Not after you're done with it."

Patrick smiles, thin but genuine.  "Thanks, Pete.  Really."

He looks so pretty, all riptide eyes and rose lips and red-gold hair, that Pete wants nothing more than to do something stupid like pull him in and kiss him.  His fingers tighten around Patrick's wrist and he opens his mouth to say—what, he's not sure, because he's interrupted by the door banging open and three people barging in.

"I'm sure he's finis— _Patrick!_ Oh my god," one of them yells, rushing over and ripping him away from Pete's gentle grip.  She spins and has a stake pressed to Pete's chest before he can blink.  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't stake you right now," she croaks, hands shaking.

Pete doesn't reply, staying as still as possible.  The tip of the stake is sharp, pressing through his clothes and angrily reminding him who's in charge.

Patrick, on the other hand, _does_ reply, and he's very vocal about it.  "Vienna, stop!" he shouts, rushing up to pull at her arms, but he's held back by another person who entered with Vienna.  "Let me _go,_ Joe," he grumbles, but he sinks back into his embrace like it's been a comfort to him many times before.  Pete can't help the sharp jab of jealousy that spikes through his chest and chokes him, even though there's nothing to be jealous of, nothing for him to get jealous over.  There's just—nothing.

"You were about to let him free," Joe says, voice tight.  "He could have killed you, Patrick."  His voice shakes over the words, like there's nothing else in the world that scares him more than that thought.

Pete can't hold it back.  "Me?" he laughs, voice colored cruel and angry and defensive.  "Kill Patrick?  It would be more likely for Beckett to start passing out meals to the homeless."

Vienna goes tense all over, and Pete feels the end of the stake press into his skin and break through the first layer.  He grimaces.  "You dare—you come in here, and we have the grace to _not_ kill you, and you dare to throw that name around like it's nothing," she croaks.

"Vienna," Patrick snaps.  "I'm fine, it's fine, just stop— _please._ "  He jerks away from Joe again and avoids the grip of the other man, the one absolutely covered in tattoos.  Patrick reaches out to Vienna and yanks at her arm, obviously pissed off.  "Would you just _listen—_ "

Vienna fights to regain control of her arm and shake Patrick off, but the short man only seems to hold on tighter.  After a tense few seconds, Vienna finally manages to shove Patrick off her, but she socks him in the nose when she does so.  Patrick's head snaps back with a sharp _crack_ , hands coming up to cradle his nose.  Anger sparks to life in the back of Patrick's eyes, but it's nothing like the swell of red that twists sharply in Pete's chest.

Pete knocks Vienna's hand away, grabbing at her shirt collar.  Her weapon clatters out of her hand in shock.  "Don't touch him," Pete hisses, compel creeping into his voice unknowingly.  " _Don't you fucking touch him_."

"Pete," Patrick says around the hand he still has gingerly inspecting his nose, "Pete I'm fine."

The tattooed hunter lunges forward, attempting to pull Vienna out of Pete's iron grip.  All he succeeds in doing is pissing Pete off, and he throws both of them to the side, where they stumble into each other and out of Pete's grasp.  Joe lurches forward, as if to attack Pete as well, but Patrick catches him by the arm and pulls him close.  "Everyone quit it," the young hunter begs, throwing out his other arm in a _stop_ gesture.  "Stop it!"

Vienna bristles.  "I'm not going to just stand here and let this vamp, who we should have killed last night, attack us in our own—"

"You're the one that attacked me!" Pete counters, earning himself a murderous glare.

"Everyone shut up!" Patrick shouts.  The hunters can tell he means business, so they all still and wait for instruction from their boss.  Pete tries to become one with the wall; he feels too exposed like this, panicky and defensive and reckless and maybe just a little bit like he deserves whatever the hunters want to do to him.

Patrick points an accusing finger at Vienna, not releasing Joe's arm.  "Do not, under _any_ circumstances, harm my prisoner."  Pete feels a thrill of satisfaction until Patrick turns on _him_.  "And you, Pete.  Since you can't seem to control yourself either, I'm chaining you back up."

"But—" Pete's protest dies on his tongue at the look in Patrick's eyes.  He's worried, knows that his friends— _employees_ —are a second away from tearing Pete to pieces, are even now wishing him into the worst situations.

Pete can feel the incredulous eyes on him as Patrick gently circles his wrist with his fingers and locks him all the way up again.  Now that he's been free for several minutes, going back into the position is even more uncomfortable, but Pete will take that over being dead any day.  The room is silent when Patrick drops his hands.  He stares at Pete, and Pete stares back, confused.  Patrick raises his hand and makes as if to lay it on Pete's chest, but aborts the motion and instead adjusts his hat again, scratching under the brim.  "Let's go," he murmurs.

"We've haven't even—" Vienna protests.

"No, we should get out of here," the tattooed hunter agrees.  He seems the most cool-headed of them all.

"But Andy," Vienna argues.

"But nothing," Patrick says, voice ten thousand years old.  "We're going."  He watches the rest of the people file out the door, then turns back to Pete one last time.  They both know that the other hunters linger at the door, watching, so Patrick doesn't do much other than tell him, "Don't get yourself killed, dumbass," in a fond tone.

"I'll do my best," Pete replies, voice tinged sarcastic.

Patrick glances over his shoulder.  "Look," he says, dropping his voice, "what I'm going to do right now is have a follow-up meeting about you and your interrogation.  You're supposed to be useful.  That's the only reason you're alive.  Try to make yourself as useful as possible.  Please."  He looks scared.

"I'm extremely useful for a _variety_ of tasks," Pete assures him.

"I'm sure you are," Patrick replies dryly, before following the other hunters out of the door.  Patrick thinks his sees him wave, a small movement that could have just as easily been a twitch.  It makes him smile anyway.

* * *

Pete spends the next few hours trying to remember what Patrick had been singing.  He'd been mostly out of it, but he thinks he has the jist of it down.  It would make a nice song.  A good song.  A _great_ song.  Pete doesn't know much about music, but he can tell when something sounds good, and that—that sounded good.

His mind wanders over several events and happenings and thoughts before coming back to land—as always—on Patrick.  He thinks about the way he could project his thoughts into Patrick's mind, now that he's not worried about people dying on him.  He's never heard of that particular power before, but then again he hasn't heard much from the vampire community.  When he gets back he should ask the, um—fuck it, he'll just start calling them the Hoods—the Hoods about what they've heard.  That is, if they don't kill him for disappearing on them.

"Damn it," Pete murmurs.  He'd promised he would be back, with the implication that it would be that evening.  They're probably—definitely—supremely pissed off.  Pete would be too.

Well, actually that's a lie.  Pete would just probably not care.  Or at least he would have a week ago—has it only been a week?  Damn, it has.  Seven nights since the first time he spoke to Patrick.  Funny how things change so quickly.

Pete is pulled from his rambling thoughts by the sounding of a shrill alarm.  He expects it to be one of those annoying fire alarms he was very glad to leave behind, but it doesn't stop after five minutes.  Or ten.  Or fifteen.  It keeps going and going and going, a fucking Energizer bunny of a sound.  And then—it stops.  The quiet afterwards is deep and blue-purple, scratching at Pete's ears.  Something has to be wrong.  He thinks he hears shouting, and a scream, but it's far away and the door is thick and he can't be sure.  He just hopes that Patrick is okay.

A moment later, the very person he was thinking of comes crashing through the door.  "Thank god," Pete calls out, "I was starting to get bored with how expositiony my thoughts were getting.  It's about time that—Patrick?"

Patrick makes it across the room, reaches out with trembling and bloody hands.  "P-Pete," he stammers, like his name is the only thing keeping him going.  "Pete.  Help."

"Oh my god," Pete cries, "oh my god, oh my fucking god.  What happened?  Patrick, you have to let me out of here.  What happened?  What _happened?_ "  He leans forward, pulling at his restraints until they creak in protest.

Maddeningly, Patrick doesn't come any closer.  "It's...it's McCoy.  I knew he would be back.  I just didn't think it would be so soon."  He seems dazed and tired and not at all the determined fighter that Pete saw out on the outskirts of town last night.

"Patrick," Pete presses, "are you okay?  You've got blood on your hands."

Patrick looks down at his hands and starts, as if only just realizing what they're covered in.  "I...it's not mine.  Don't worry."

" _Patrick_ ," Pete snaps, impatient and worried, " _get your act the fuck together, let me out, and tell me what the hell is happening.  Now_."

Patrick jerks into action, releasing Pete's wrists.  The vampire lets his arms swing down, rolling out his shoulders with a satisfying pop.  Patrick still seems confused.  "We're...Pete, we're under attack."

Pete gets shivery all over, like spiders are crawling down his spine and squeezing into his skinny jeans to skitter down his legs.  "Patrick.  I think you're in shock."

"We're...oh my god, we're under attack," Patrick repeats, like he's only now understanding his words.

"Definitely shock," Pete confirms.  He takes Patrick's hand firmly in his own, not going anywhere, just holding it.

"Pete," Patrick says, suddenly serious.  "I need—I need your help.  We need your help.  Come _on_."  And now he's the one pulling Pete out the door like he'd been the one lollygagging, pulls him out of safety and darkness and ignorance and into danger and flashing lights and chaos.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, there's only one more chapter until the end of part two.  Before then though, this story is getting put on the back burner until I finish the Christmas thing-a-ma-jig I'm writing.  So it'll be a while.
> 
> In the meantime, tell me what you think is going to happen next?  Whose blood was on Patrick's hands?  What's going to happen to everyone?  Don't be afraid to drop some comments!
> 
> And lastly: I discovered this band called Set It Off and it's been two weeks and three days and they already own my soul. I have two of their albums (one of vinyl) and wow it doesn't take me very long to be trash does it. You should check them out because they're incredibly good!
> 
> Until next time, then. :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming, but here we are: the end of Part II. Enjoy it...if you can. *cue the laughter of an evil author*

If the sound of the alarm is loud to him, Patrick thinks, then it must be hell to Pete’s sensitive ears, especially if the way he tenses whenever the siren blares is any indication.  The hallway is empty, and so is most of the building—there hadn’t been many hunters at the agency that evening, so things have gone even further to shit than they would have if they had been fully staffed.

Patrick grabs Pete’s hand and practically drags him along down the hallway.  “C’mon,” he breathes.  Pete’s hand nearly slips out of his, slick with drying blood that had come from a dying friend.  He doesn’t want—he can’t think about that right now, is glad that Pete doesn’t ask.

They hardly make it two dozen feet before the power goes out.

Instantly, the hallway is plunged into darkness.  Patrick skids to a stop.  He can feel the soft brush of air where Pete stops behind him, not quite running into his back.  “What is it?” Pete asks softly.  Patrick starts at how close his voice is to his ear, the words ghosting over his skin.

“I don’t know,” Patrick replies, fighting to keep his voice steady.  He thinks Pete notices anyway, because he places his hand on one shoulder blade, pressing steadily.  “The power went out.  Maybe...maybe they cut it?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Pete asks, voice soft, breath cool.

“I’m not too sure,” Patrick admits.  “I thought they were Clandestine, but that was just because we had that run-in with McCoy the other night.  It’s not like I saw their leader or they told me or anything.”

Pete doesn’t reply, but not like he’s ignoring Patrick.  It’s a thoughtful silence, like there are a lot of ideas running through his head but he doesn’t know how to let them out.  “I don’t suppose you can see at all, can you?” he asks at last.

Patrick shakes his head,  “No.  There should be emergency lights, but...I don’t think they’ve ever needed to be used before.  Or tested.  I don’t know, actually.”

“Great, so we’re half blind.”

“Half blind?”

“Well, I can see.  Obviously.  You’re the one that’s lost in the dark.”

“Oh, yeah,  _ obviously _ ,” Patrick grumbles.  “I forget you have fucking  _ night vision, _ Mr. Fancy Pants Vampire.”

“No need to get upset about it,” Pete huffs out in a laugh.

“Easy for you to say,” Patrick shoots back.  “You’re the one that can see.”

“Touché,” Pete replies, but he doesn’t sound upset, merely amused.  Fond, even.

He places his hand on the small of Patrick’s back, and Patrick starts at the contact.  “What are you—?”

“We should really get going,” Pete says smoothly.  “And since you can’t seen anything and I’m faster anyway it would be best if I carried you.”

“I, um, of course,” Patrick stutters.   _ Obviously. _  He tries to ignore the little thrill shivering its way up and down his spine.  “Can you—can you hear anything?”

There’s a moment of silence where Pete is presumably straining to listen for sounds of combat.  “I think so?  There are noises from the other side of the building but I can’t quite make them out.”  The pressure of his hand disappears, and suddenly he’s in front of Patrick, guiding his hands to his shoulders and turning around.  “You can ride me.  Jump on up.”

Patrick blushes and tries to ignore the... _ innuendo _ of Pete’s words, bending his legs and jumping until he’s perched on Pete’s back.  He wraps his legs around Pete’s waist, his arms around his shoulders— _ there’s nothing at all sexual about this stop thinking about that oh my god Patrick  _ no  _ stop it— _ and before he can much as breathe out a ‘ready’ Pete takes off down the hallway.

It’s not a hundred feet later that the lights come back on.  Patrick flinches and squeezes his eyes shut, but Pete is the one who’s more affected, actually falling over and banging his chin on the floor.  It cracks sickeningly, but Patrick is more worried about the other vampire standing in front of them to be bothered with whether or not Pete’s jaw is broken.

Patrick swallows.  “McCoy.”

The Clandestine leader grins.  “I thought I told you to call me Travie?”  
Pete struggles to his feet.  “Stay back,” he spits, pulling Patrick behind him.

Patrick glares at him.  “I can take care of myself.”

McCoy laughs.  “Aw, shit, a lovers squabble.  How cute.”  His gaze darkens.  “At least you’ll die together.”

“What do you want from us?” Patrick asks, trying to stall and think of a way for them to both make it out of this alive.  It’s not looking too good so far.

McCoy shakes his head, grin still plastered over his features.  “Did you not get it already?  I want you two dead.  You,” he points a finger at Patrick, “stabbed me and killed some of my family, and you,” he points at Pete, “also tried to kill me.  You’re on the hunter’s side, which makes you my enemy.”  He shrugs.  “I’d say that it was just business but...it’s gotten very personal.”

“So you’re pissed and don’t know how to deal with your feelings, is what you’re saying,” Pete taunts.

Patrick kicks his ankle,  Is he trying to get them killed even faster than they would otherwise?

“I know exactly what I’m doing with my feelings,” McCoy replies lazily.  “I’m killing you.  It’ll feel a lot better once you’re dust and a bloodless husk.”

“Sure,” Pete says, eyes calculating, and then he moves, lunging for the other vampire.

McCoy sighs, having grabbed Pete by the neck before he landed a single blow.  “Honestly, you pups think you know everything, can take on anyone.”  Pete makes a choking sound as McCoy’s fingers tighten around his neck, and before Patrick can blink he’s in the same position.  McCoy easily drags them both along; he’s so much taller than they are.  He talks as he goes.  “Your security sucks ass,” he tells Patrick.  “It was embarrassingly easy how quickly we got in here.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to get in without invitation,” Patrick says stupidly.

“You really don’t know  _ anything _ , do you!” McCoy guffaws.  “That’s only for privately owned residences, you little shit.”

“This  _ is _ privately owned,” Patrick wheezes, hands gripping McCoy’s fingers to try to take some of the pressure of his throat.

“It’s a business,” McCoy says as way of answer.

“But—” Pete says, and cuts himself off.

“What?” McCoy asks, annoyed, as he kicks down a door in their path.

“Doesn’t...make sense,” Pete wheezes.

McCoy shrugs, the movement putting more pressure on Patrick’s throat so that his breath gets jagged and rusty-sounding.  “I don’t ask questions.  I just know whether I can get in buildings or not.”

“He’s right,” Patrick chokes, “you shouldn’t…be here.”

“Good god,” McCoy groans, squeezing tighter until Patrick can’t speak and something cracks in Pete’s neck.  “Is this really the conversation you want to be having right before you die?  You couldn’t get anymore pathetic if you tried.”

“Why don’t you just kill us already?” Pete rasps.

“Because throwing you to the wolves is so much more fun to watch than tearing your heads off,” McCoy answers.  Patrick’s not sure either option sounds like fun to him, but it doesn’t matter because then the dark-skinned Clandestine leader is dragging them into the front lobby, where nearly two dozen other gang members wait with gleaming teeth.

Patrick doesn’t want to look where he knows Zachary’s body lies—his blood is on his hands, he watched him die, he doesn’t need to live through that again—but he can’t help it.  Especially not if there’s a Clandestine sitting next to it, gnawing at his wrist with a determined look on her face, like she’s trying to suck the last of her soda out of a straw.  She looks up when they enter, eyes flicking black for a moment before surging to her feet with the rest of the Clandestines.

“Dessert,” McCoy says graciously, throwing Patrick forward.

Patrick stumbles to his knees, coughing.  He can feel the gazes of other vampires on him, and it makes his skin crawl.  He’s helpless, hates the feeling.  “I’m going to die,” his whispers to himself.

_ You’re not going to fucking die _ , he hears in his mind, in Pete’s voice.

“That’s right,” one of the Clandestines laughs, staggering towards him, drunk on blood.  “We’ll be sure to make it slow.”  But Patrick’s too busy staring at Pete to care, his eyes wide.  Pete stares back, like he’s not sure why Patrick is looking at him.

“I call first bite,” a Clandestine with a crooked nose that’s been broken one too many times snarls, grabbing Patrick by the arm.  Patrick wrenches himself out of his grasp, panic fluttering in his chest like a bird with a broken wing that can’t quite escape.

“Don’t touch him,” Pete snaps.

McCoy sighs, then takes his free hand and grabs Pete arm, twisting and pulling behind his back until something snaps and he screams in pain, knees buckling.  “Have this one too,” McCoy says, bored.  “You can’t eat him, but I’m guessing he’ll be fun to play with.”  He hops up on the desk and watches with his arms crossed as his Clandestines close in.

Patrick backs towards Pete, watching out of the corner of his eye and he clenches his jaw and then forces his arm out of its twisted position behind his back, the skin contorting and the bones crackling as they force themselves back into realignment.  He looks pale, paler than usual.  Which.  His arm had just been broken in several places.  Patrick’s not too surprised.

Pete struggles to his feet, wincing as he reaches out to pull Patrick closer to him.   _ You need to get out of here. _

Patrick turns his full attention to Pete.  “What the—how are you doing that?”

_ Shut up.  I don’t know, but obviously it’s working, and they can’t hear it.  So when I move, run.  Get out of here.  Save yourself, I’ll hold them back. _  Pete narrows his dark-rimmed eyes at him, the skin discolored and bruised.  He looks fragile and tired, paper-thin, like Patrick could  _ think _ too hard around him and he’d topple over.  There is no way he’s going to fight off twenty Clandestines.  Patrick tells him as much.

“There’s no way you’re going to fight off twenty Clandestines,” Patrick says, not bothering to keep his voice down since the vampires would be able to hear him no matter how quietly he spoke.

“You got that damn right,” a Clandestine says, baring teeth stained red.  Another licks their lips hungrily.

“Then he definitely won’t get past another twenty Dandies,” drawls a voice from the door.  Patrick’s eyes flick up to meet the cold and sharp ones of none other than William Beckett.

McCoy hisses at the intrusion, stalking up to the other vampire leader.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

Beckett inspects a glove-encased hand.  “I heard that this hunting agency was under attack and figured it was the perfect time to come claim what was mine.”  His gaze, oil-slick and tar-thick, slides over to ooze onto Patrick.  Patrick freezes, unwanted memories springing to the front of his mind as if called there by an outside force.  Maybe they are.

McCoy scowls.  “What are you really doing here?”

Beckett shrugs, unconcerned, then gestures towards Pete.  “I followed his distress.”

“He yours?” McCoy asks.

“Yes,” Beckett answers, teeth glinting.  “Mine again.”

Patrick’s mind races.  But...wasn’t Pete free from the influence of both gangs?  Why did Beckett act like Pete was one of the Dandies?

Fingers twitching, McCoy scans the Dandies that fan out behind Beckett.  His eyes narrow.  “Where’s your pet?”

Beckett gives a faux-yawn, as if the whole affair is beneath him.  “I assume you’re talking about Urie.  He’s off attending to business of his own.  Now.  I want what is mine.”

“I found him first.  A treat for my family,” McCoy protests.

“Is that what you’re calling them now?” Beckett muses.  “A family?  Cute.  And actually, he was mine first, long before tonight.  I lay claim to the human.  You can keep the vampire.”

Things are growing more confusing by the minute.  Patrick can hardly catch what the vampire leaders are saying to each other.  It’s not like he can’t understand the words, which are spoken clearly and with careful weight.  More like there’s a hidden meaning behind them that he can’t quite comprehend.  That Beckett wants him back, though... _ that  _ Patrick can understand.  And he doesn’t want that.  He would quite literally rather die.

Patrick jumps when Pete puts his hand on his arm, lips brushing the hair just behind his ear.  “I won’t let them take you,” he promises, like he can hear Patrick’s thoughts.

“No matter what,” Patrick demands weakly, hoping Pete understands the hidden meaning.   _ Even if he has to kill him. _

Pete hesitates, then nods.  “No matter what.”

“Actually, no,” Beckett says, appearing at Patrick's side and grasping his arm in a delicate-looking embrace that actually has Patrick gasping in pain.  “You're coming with me.”  Fear crawls up Patrick's throat to sit in his airway and suffocate  him.

“Don't touch him,” Pete growls, eyes blinking black.

“What?” Beckett sneers.  “Have you gotten used to having a plaything of your own?”

“He's not a  _ plaything _ ,” Pete spits, the words sharp white-hot quills that embed themselves in the floor at Beckett’s feet.  “And he's not yours.”  Pete jerks forward, as if to attack, but stops after hardly moving an inch.

Beckett tuts disapprovingly.  “You forget who you belong to, pup.  You do whatever I want you to.”

Pete’s face contorts into a snarl, throat moving like he wants to speak but cannot.  Patrick feels dread pool in the bottom of his stomach; if Pete can’t move, is trapped under the power of Beckett’s compel, then there’s no hope for him. 

But then Patrick watches as Pete’s limbs slowly ease back into action, determination rolling off of him in waves.  Beckett is too busy pulling Patrick after him to notice that now Pete follows as well, face screwed up in concentration.  At least, not until one of the Dandies (the Clandestines just watch in interest, unconcerned with warning Beckett in any way) shouts, “Beckett, watch—” and then Pete’s upon him, tackling him to the ground.

Beckett curses, but that’s the last Patrick registers of that fight, because the scuffle is enough to break the tense silence of the room.  Dandies snarl, several moving to jump on Pete, and push Clandestines out of the way in the process.  They shove each other around, and someone starts yelling, and then someone else throws a punch and then there’s an all-out brawl.

Patrick backs away from the melee until he’s pressed against the wall.  This is...the second-most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced.  (This first being Beckett himself; nothing will ever be as petrifying to Patrick as that vampire.)  He’s going to die.  There’s no way he’s going to make it out of this alive.

Taking a shaky breath, Patrick starts edging his way towards the door, hoping he can at least make it outside.  Maybe take one last breath of fresh air before one of the vamps catches him and rips his throat out.  Which Patrick would actually prefer to being taken by Beckett again.  At least he’d be dead that way.

Before he can move more than a few feet, a vampire gets slammed up against the wall next to him, a wooden stake embedded in his stomach and coughing up blood.  Patrick freezes.  Are the gangs carrying weapons now?  They’re dangerous enough, all teeth and strength and stealth, without the use of munitions.  But no.  Suddenly Joe appears in Patrick’s line of vision, sweaty and with vampire blood splattered against one of his shoulders and his neck.  Patrick absently wipes away a bit that lies too close to his mouth with his fingers.  “What are you doing here?” he asks numbly.

Joe drags Patrick away from the core of the fighting.  “Our shift started ten minutes ago.  We’ve been trying to find away inside without getting slaughtered by the vampires, and this fight seemed the way to do it.”

“You thought coming inside while they were fighting was going to be  _ safer _ ,” Patrick repeats, not missing the “we.”  If Joe is here because of the start of his shift, then that must mean Andy and Vienna and a few more hunters—Patrick can’t make his mind work well enough to think of who—are here as well.

Joe flashes him a tense smile, grip tightening on his arm as he pulls him out of the way of another fighting duo.  “They’re distracted.  So we came inside.”

“Right,” Patrick mutters, ducking down behind the front desk with Joe.  The wooden structure shakes as someone gets body-slammed against it.

“Alright,” Joe says, pulling out spare weaponry from the inside of his coat and passing it to Patrick.  “We’re just going to like...fucking stab a bunch of vampires.”

“What a wonderful plan,” Patrick says dryly, but he takes the stake and nods when Joe does, and then they leap over the desk together.

Right away, Patrick stabs a vampire, who crumbles beneath his hands.  Joe takes down one as well, and now Patrick can see the other hunters in the room.  Suddenly, the tide of the battle shifts.  McCoy and Beckett draw close together, spitting orders, and now it’s not gang versus gang, but vampires versus humans.  They’re terribly outnumbered, and as Patrick watches one of them goes down with three separate vampires at her neck.  Patrick and Joe fight their way over to the rest of the Sixteen Candles employees, about five of them huddled together.  Andy nods at him, and Vienna ducks under his arms to attack a vampire that comes up behind him.

Patrick sends a hurried gaze over the fighting, searching for Pete.  He doesn’t see him, but that’s neither a good nor bad thing.  Either way, he doesn’t have any time to think about it, because he has to focus on more important things, such as not dying.  Something he’s still not sure he’ll be able to do.

Joe pulls Patrick down by the collar of his jacket, and he narrowly avoids the punch that had been aimed at his head.  “Thanks,” Patrick pants.  Joe nods curtly.

They need to find a way to end this fight, and they need to find it now.  Patrick knows that there’s no way they’ll be able to fight off all of these vampires, isn’t sure how much longer they can last until they’re overpowered.  The only thing they still have going for them is that some of the Dandies and Clandestines are still fighting each other, so that their full attention is not focused on the group of six or seven hunters fighting valiantly on the edge of the room.

And then—

And then Patrick watches as Beckett slips through the crowd towards him, anger sparking across his black eyes.  The only thought that Patrick’s mind is capable of making is a desperate  _ No _ , and without thinking Patrick flings the stake in his hands towards the Dandy leader, hoping against hope that his years of training and the adrenaline pumping through his veins will work in his favor and that the weapon find its mark.

It doesn’t.

At least, not really.  Beckett stumbles to a stop, and so do the rest of the Dandies; they freeze when their leader does, like they can no longer move.  The Clandestines seems to know that shit’s about to go down, so they stop as well, and within moments every vampire in the room is staring at Patrick Stumph.

Beckett’s hands curl almost tenderly around the wooden rod sticking out of the right side of his chest, opposite his heart.  He pulls the weapon out slowly, almost reverently, his face blank.  Blood seeps slowly into the white linen of his shirt, and finally Beckett looks up, his brown eyes oddly expressionless.

“Patrick,” he sighs, his voice slithering into Patrick’s ears and locking up his muscles.  “Patrick, darling, I do wish you hadn’t done that.”  Almost too fast to see, he flings the blood-soaked stake towards the hunters.  Patrick doesn’t even have time to flinch before he hears a sickening  _ thud  _ next to him and Joe sinks to the ground.

Now Joe is the one whose hands clutch at his chest, although he is much less graceful about it than Beckett was.  “No,” Patrick chokes.  “No.”  He wants to help him, wants to drag him away from the fighting and to the medical bay, wants to tuck him into his arms and keep him safe.  But Beckett has Patrick pinned beneath his stare, a malicious twist to his mouth.

“Yes,” the Dandy leader hisses, gliding closer until he’s close enough to grab Patrick’s chin with his long fingers.  He looks furious.  “That fucking hurt.”

_ This is it _ , Patrick thinks.   _ This is how I disappear—this is how I die. _

“Don’t fucking touch him,” comes a voice from over Beckett’s shoulder, and then Pete is there, jumping on William Beckett’s back and pulling at his hair.  The two vampires erupt into a tangle of limbs and flashing teeth, and now Patrick finally falls to his knees.  Andy follows him, and the rest of the hunters start fighting again.

“Joe,” rasps Patrick, cupping his jaw with his hands.  “Joe.”

“Patrick,” Joe says, or at least Patrick thinks he does.  His voice is too quiet to hear properly.

“You’re going to be—you’re going to be fine,” Patrick chokes.  Andy’s fingers hover over the stake, but he doesn’t make any move to remove it or try to patch the wound.  Patrick doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Joe shakes his head, throat working like he’s trying to speak but he can’t.  “Blood,” he says weakly.

“What…”  Patrick frowns.  When he realizes what Joe means, it’s like getting hit with a train, and he can’t breathe.  “ _ No. _ ”  The stake.  The stake with  _ Beckett’s blood on it _ .

Joe closes his eyes and swallows.  “Don’t…let me...turn.”

“I can’t not—I don’t know how,” Patrick says helplessly.

Joe’s eyes slide open again, heavy-lidded and sleepy.  “You do.”

“I can’t kill you, Joe,” Patrick says, a little deliriously.  “I can’t lose you too.”

With what little strength he has left, Joe fists his hand in Patrick’s jacket.  “Have...to.  Please.”

“Patrick,” Andy says gently, and Patrick whirls on him.

“Shut up!” he cries.  “Shut the fuck up.  We’re not fucking killing him, okay?  It’s Joe.  We’re not—we can’t—” his voice breaks, and his heart shatters along with it.

Andy holds up his hands in surrender, then stands to leave the two men alone.  He joins in with the fighting again.

Patrick watches him go, watches the way Pete grapples with Beckett, and feels confusion and pain twist at his chest.  His heart—it’s being torn in two.  Pete manages to land a blow to the side of Beckett’s face, and he makes quick eye contact with Patrick before he’s pulled back into the fighting.

And then McCoy and Beckett are the ones fighting each other, and Pete’s free, trying to work his way over to where Patrick and Joe lay.  Patrick shakes his head to clear it and brings his attention back to what’s important.  Joe.  Joe is important.  The vampires, the fighting, the impending death—none of it matters.

Patrick presses his forehead to Joe’s.  “Please,” he whispers, screwing his eyes shut.  “Please.  Don’t go.”  He opens his eyes to see Joe looking up at him with the softest expression possible.

“At least...you’re here,” Joe gurgles.

Patrick doesn’t know why he does it.  (Actually, if he thinks about it, he knows exactly why.  He just doesn’t want to think about it.)  But he finds himself pressing his lips softly to Joe’s, who smiles weakly into the kiss.  The contact is brief, but it seems to last for hours.  Patrick tries to say everything he was never brave enough to say in person.  The  _ thank you _ s and the  _ I’m sorry _ s—every emotion, he pours into the kiss, tips into Joe’s mouth like it is an elixir that can somehow save him.  Patrick’s fingers trace the edge of Joe’s jaw, prickly with stubble.  “Please don’t leave me,” he begs.

Joe’s eyes close again, and open with even weaker movements than before.  “Can’t...help it.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispers, his breath ghosting across Joe’s lips.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Joe says, and Patrick’s hand stills on his cheek.  “For what?”

“Every...thing.”

“No,” Patrick says, “Joe, no.  I don’t—don’t leave me.  I need you.  You’re—my best friend.  Please.”

Joe frowns, opening his mouth like he wants to say something else.  The words don’t make it past his lips.  Nothing makes it past his lips, Patrick realizes, because he’s no longer breathing.

A cavity, a cavern, a black hole, opens in Patrick’s chest, sucking in all of his emotions until he’s left with nothing but rage.  These—fucking— _ vampires _ —they just take everything, everything.  Patrick has nothing.  Every good thing in his life—gone.  Ripped from his grasp.

He’s going to kill every last one of them.

Patrick’s not sure how long he crouches there with Joe’s body folded into his arms.  The fighting doesn’t matter; he may have vowed to destroy every vampire that he ever sees, but for now...for now he sits and nurses his anger, holds Joe close.  When he finally raises his head, eyes bleary, he sees that McCoy and Beckett are at a stand-off.  Time seems warped, fluid in a way that he can’t make sense of, because it can’t be that he blinks and the vampires are gone, but that’s what seems to happen.  The bodies of hunters litter the floor.  Patrick and Joe are alone.

He can’t seem to make his hands let go of Joe, can’t move from his position.  Can’t look away from Joe’s face.  His eyes are still open.  He’s not looking at anything.  Unseeing.

“I’m going to—I’m going to kill them all,” Patrick vows, his voice something terrible and unnatural.  He doesn’t recognize it.  “I’m not going to stop until they’re all dead.  Until this cursed city is free of them.  I promise, I—”  His throat closes off.  The next vampire he sees is going to be dead before they can even register that Patrick’s there.

Of course, Pete chooses this moment to sink to the ground next to him.

Patrick just stares at him.  “What do you want?” he spits, his words venom, flecks of molten emotion that Pete flinches away from when they sting his skin.

“Trick…”

“Don’t talk to me,” Patrick snaps.  “Don’t call me that.  This is your fault.”

“How is this  _ my _ fault?” Pete demands, leaning away.

“It just is,” Patrick insists.

Pete looks between them.  Patrick doesn’t like that he looks at Joe.  He doesn’t  _ deserve  _ to look at Joe.  “You need to do something with him before he wakes up again.”

“Shut up,” Patrick grits.  “Shut up.  Don’t.  I said don’t talk to me.”

“I’m trying to help you,” Pete says pleadingly.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Patrick knows he’s right.  He knows that Joe’s body has to be taken care of before he wakes up as a vampire.  Patrick won’t do that to Joe, won’t give him up to that fate.  It doesn’t mean he likes what he has to do.

Patrick doesn’t realize that Pete has the stake in his hands until he has it pressed to Joe’s chest.  “Pete,” he says weakly, no real strength behind the word.

“You can’t do this right now, I know that,” Pete says quietly.  “So let me do it for you.  I’ll do it for you.”

Patrick can only watch numbly as Pete stabs Joe’s unbeating heart, using his superhuman strength to slide the stake in easily.  It doesn’t make a sound, nothing makes a sound, except for the shrill noise in Patrick’s head, all this ringing in his ears.  At first, nothing happens, and then Joe’s skin takes on an ashen gray color, before it seems to sink in on himself.  Cracks race across his body, and he shatters, crumbling in Patrick’s arms.

And then he’s gone.

Patrick looks up, away from Pete, away from the empty air that his hands curl around, and flinches when Pete reaches out to him.  “Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice too loud in the quiet lobby.  “Don’t touch me, you— _ parasite _ .”  Pete shrinks away from Patrick, his anger nearly physical, a tiger that paces in tight circles between them.

“Patrick?”  It’s Andy’s voice.

Patrick squints, his fellow hunter swimming into focus, Vienna appearing over his shoulder.  Why is the world so watery?  It’s not until he feels the hot streak down his cheek that he realizes he’s crying.   _ Oh.  That’s why. _  “He’s gone,” Patrick says, voice bland.

Vienna’s accusing eyes immediately go to Pete, and Patrick doesn’t say anything to contradict her belief.  She’s technically right.  Pete was the one who killed him for good.  “I’m going to fucking kill you,” she promises, pulling her own stake out.

Pete scrambles to his feet, nearly falling over in his haste.  “Wait, no.”

“You don’t have any say here,” Andy says in his soft-but-firm way.  “None.”

“Leave,” Patrick says.  “Leave.  Before I kill you myself.”

“Patrick,” Pete says weakly, backing away from the three of them.

Patrick shakes his head.  “Get the hell out of my building.”

“I was trying to help!” Pete protests, desperate.  “I was just trying to help you, I—please, Patrick.”

“He said get out.”  Vienna’s voice is cold enough to freeze the surface of the sun.

Pete shoots one last skittish glance in Patrick’s direction, and then with a blur he’s gone.  The room feels much too big without him in it, but Patrick couldn’t stand him being there, either.  He doesn’t...he doesn’t want anything.  It all just needs to  _ stop _ .

“Patrick,” Vienna says softly, but Patrick shakes his head.

“No.”  He’s incapable of saying anything else, but that seems to be enough.  Vienna takes Andy’s arm and leads him away.  They leave Patrick to sit there, back pressed against the wall, head tilted back.

Patrick stares at the ceiling and lets the hole in his chest expand until he’s swallowed by it.  He’s not sure he can make it through this, can’t deal with losing someone this close to him again.  Everything he thought he’d built up with Pete—lost.  And Beckett, he’d hinted at Urie having plans he was acting on.  Everything’s gone to shit.

There’s too much to think about, so Patrick stops thinking for a little while.  The silence his brain descends into is nice, even though he knows it cannot last forever.  Even if he knows something is coming.  It’s so quiet, but then again...it’s always calmest before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think is going to happen next? Will Pete be able to repair his and Patrick's relationship? What does Brendon have planned? Leave some comments and tell me what you thought!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I didn't read over this at all so there are probably plenty of mistakes, but I've been sitting on it for a while and thought you all deserved some answers after the end of part II.  This may or may not answer them. ;) (Read: I am evil and don't like to resolve cliffhangers. Mwah ha ha.)

**PART III: The Best Worst Thing**

Brendon Boyd Urie has a lot of shit to do, and he doesn't need the Priest getting involved to make things any more difficult than they already are.

"What do you want?" Brendon growls upon opening the door to his office and discovering the ancient vampire sitting in his chair. He refuses to let him see his feathers ruffled, so he preens and smooths down the front of suit jacket before deciding to act at ease and taking it off completely, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs facing his desk.

"To speak with you," the Priest replies in his cool voice.

"I have things I need to do," Brendon says, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. This vampire doesn't scare him, not when there are dozens of voices in the back of his head telling him that he's strong and has nothing to fear. He listens to them, like he always listens to the.

The Priest leans forward. "Yes. Your goal to take over the city. That is, coincidentally, what I am here to talk to you about."

Brendon bristles. "Who said I was going to—?"

"I did," the Priest interrupts smoothly. "I told you once, Brendon, that you and I are very different." Brendon fumes. It's not that it matters so much that the Priest knows, he supposes, but not even Beckett truly understands the extent of his plans. He's not going to stop, and he doesn't need his information in the minds of others so they can go and fuck it up.

"If I recall," Brendon says frostily, "you said that we were complete opposites in every sense of the form and that I needed to get the hell out of your church."

The Priest's lips twitch slightly, either up into a smile or down into a frown, Brendon isn't sure. "Not in so many words, yes. But I never told you why."

"You never tell anyone anything," Brendon retorts. "Although you seem to know everything." Brendon frowns. "How do you keep getting in here anyway?" _And why do you care?_

The Priest is silent for a moment, steepling his fingers and tapping the end of his chin with them. He almost seems to be listening for something that Brendon can't hear, if the faraway look in his eyes is any indication. At last, he says, "You can see into the past."

"No shit, Sherlock," Brendon bites out.

"You do realize that this...ability is completely unique to you?"

"Obviously," Brendon huffs. _He's distracting you,_ something whispers in the back of his mind. _Tell him to_ — "cut to the point."

The Priest narrows his eyes. "I do not think this is a subject we should be discussing with present company."

"There's no one else here," Brendon says, like the Priest is an idiot. He can hear every vampire in the building, and smell them. They're not anywhere close enough to be eavesdropping, and if they were they'd know what's good for them and take the words to their grace.

"Not that you can see, no," the Priest murmurs, and before Brendon can register, he's standing in front of him with the fingers of his right hand pressed to Brendon's forehead, eyes boring into Brendon's. Brendon jerks away from the touch, which is scalding hot, but the Priest doesn't release his grip. Brendon cries out, both from the pain of the touch and from the intense pressure inside his own head.

And then—and then it's gone. _Everything_. Every voice that isn't his own, every idea that was thought of by a mind that doesn't belong to him. It's so— _quiet_.

He feels suddenly tiny, like his mind is too-empty, like he has too much room to himself. He feels—whatever the fuck the opposite of claustrophobia is, the fear of wide open spaces. If Brendon needed to breathe he wouldn't be able to right now. As it is, his chest constricts so tightly he feels he might collapse inward on himself. His ribs are snakes, squeezing and betraying him. He's being eaten by the silence in his mind, chipped away until the bits of him that are _Brendon_ are cast aside and crumbled down.

"What have you done to me," he manages to ask.

The Priest presses his fingers back to Brendon's temples, but this time the touch his cool. He doesn't break eye contact, white pupils and red irises surrounded by black sclera. "You do not know what you hold within your mind, do you." It is not really a question, and Brendon shakes his head. The Priest drops his hand, but keeps his gaze steady, and now Brendon can feel the sigh of a compel around his mind, an impenetrable barrier separating his consciousness from...what, exactly?

"The things that you can do," the Priest says, "they are unprecedented. You see into the past, Brendon. You have the consciousness of every one of your ancestors trapped within your mind." He pauses. "Which in of itself is not actually unusual."

Brendon frowns. "But you said—"

"What is unusual about you," the Priest interrupts smoothly, "is that you are able to hear them. That they are able to influence you."

Brendon isn't sure how to take this information. "Sometimes," he says, so softly he's not sure he's even speaking aloud, "they're so loud I can't hear myself. Most of the time, actually. It's like I don't exist. Like they're in charge of my body." And it makes now, when he's all alone in his own brain, all the stranger. The uncertain and dorky boy that Brendon was still lives in his skull, but too often his thoughts and actions are corrupted by the proddings of others. He feels so different now, so much more like himself.

"That would be because they are," the Priest agrees.

Brendon stares. "You sound like you don't care."

The Priest nods slightly. "I do not."

"But...then why are you even here?"

"Because I have seen what will happen if I do not intervene, Brendon," he murmurs. "Because while I may not care for your life, or the life of any other individual more than one cares for an insect, no one wants the entire population of bees on the planet to disappear, do they?"

"What are you saying?" Brendon asks.

"You see into the past, I see into the future...to an extent," the Priest answers vaguely. "And you are headed down a path I cannot let you continue down."

"I don't..."

"Do not look at me and tell me that you do not know what you are going to do," the Priest says softly. "Even if they have hidden it from you, it is your mind. You know what is to transpire."

And Brendon does. He had been ignoring it, trying to believe that it wasn't true, but there's no denying it. Especially not now that the Priest, the most powerful vampire in Chicago, and who can apparently _see into the future,_ has come to tell him to stop. The utter destruction and carnage and _chaos_ —all the blood that will be shed, all the lives lost—everything that Brendon could never have dreamed of doing. It's bad, it's worse than anything in any movie or story. Killing for the sake of killing. To gain some modicum of power, to show that he's the one in charge.

Brendon doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about the things he's already done.

"Why are they there?" Brendon asks instead. "Aren't they all...dead?"

"Vampires never truly die," the Priest informs him. "We live on in the consciousness of our children, although they cannot sense us. It is a strange twist of fate that has allowed you to have these abilities."

"Abilitie _s_?" Brendon says, mind swimming. First he can hear the dead, and now what?

"You do not think your compel is that strong through mere chance, do you?" Brendon hates the way he sounds so amused. "You have thousands of years of vampires in your mind to make you strong. It is no wonder you cannot resist their power; part of you does not want to."

Brendon feels like he's been slapped across the face. "I still don't understand why you're here," he says flatly, chest feeling strangely hollow and apprehensive. "I don't understand what you're saying is happening to me."

The Priest narrows his eyes. "You do not have to understand. Just know that it is happening. I have been watching you for three years, ever since you were born and you first came to see me."

Brendon thinks back on the way he practically burned his hand off on the doorknob trying to get into the Priest's office the first time, how he talked to other vampires and they never even made it in the door, dissuaded by the hot metal. He thinks of the Priest's fingers, hot on his forehead. "Was that..."

"Some kind of test? Yes."

"Did I pass?" Brendon asks, emotion creeping back into his voice in the form of curiosity.

"That remains to be seen."

"What do I...what's going to happen?" Brendon can't help but feel like he's being interrogated even though he's the one asking all the questions.

"What do you regret?" It's hard to read the emotion in the Priest's eyes, but Brendon definitely sees a flash of _something_.

"There are many things I regret," Brendon says finally. "Sneaking out of my house that night I got caught by those vampires...that Spencer—" he swallows. He won't let himself hide from what he's done. "That I k-killed Spencer. Dragging Pete into this mess. That I couldn't even keep him safe from whatever...whatever else is living inside my head."

The Priest is silent, studying him. Those eyes...they unnerve even Brendon. "There is a way to save him."

"Who, Pete?" Brendon asks, and the ancient vampire before him nods in affirmation. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you think that the humans of this city have not caught on that I am, in fact, a vampire?" the Priest returns.

"I don't..."

"The sunlight, Brendon. It does not burn me."

Brendon can feel every muscle in his body go tense and slack at once. "What? But that's impossible!"

The Priest shakes his head. "Not impossible, but very unpleasant. For both parties involved."

"Tell me," Brendon says, the words coming out half-supported and weak when he forgets to take a breath first.

"There is a caveat," the other vampire warns.

 _"Tell me_." Brendon needs to know. He'll shake apart if he doesn't. Maybe...maybe this way he can atone for the all his wrongdoings, the sins he's written (and will write) across the city in a bloody tragedy.

"You will need to let them do what they want," the Priest explains, "you will need to continue on your course, hide yourself away and surrender your body to continue to do their evils."

Brendon's chest feels tight. "But it will all end, after that?"

The Priest nods. "After that, it will all be over."

"Tell me."

"Very well."

* * *

After that, after the Priest leaves and Brendon's mind comes crashing back down around him, he locks his consciousness away and safeguards this new information. He lets the ancients take over. He gives in.

* * *

The police fall next. Brendon—or rather, the past lives that control his mind—easily infiltrates their downtown office one night, walking right in past security and police officers, grabbing hold of their minds with his compel and digging in his claws. "This city will be mine," he says, and no one dares to defy him. They can't...and the others don't want to, not when he hands over the large sums of vampire money. Turns out vampires—especially the older ones—accumulate a lot of dough over the years.

"What do we need to do?" one of them asks, and Brendon grins a toothy smile, a great white, all predator. Gently, he leans close to the policeman and presses a cold finger to his lips. "Keep your mouth shut," he says, "that's all I ask of you." The smile slips, and his hand grips threateningly at the policeman's shoulder instead. "And if you should breathe a word of this to the hunting agencies..." He lets the sentence hang unfinished.

"What else do we have to do?" another one inquires.

"Nothing yet," Brendon says vaguely. He's hungry, and he's distracted by the blood pumping fast and hot in the humans' veins. It would be impractical to eat his army though, so he restrains himself. "But soon, I'll need you to help me eliminate the rest of my threats." His thoughts turn again to SCHA, and to Pete, who seems to be...allies with them, if nothing else. A frown creases his eyebrows.

The police shift uneasily when Brendon doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and he turns narrowed eyes upon them. "Also, don't give me or any of the Dandies shit for eating people. The Clandestines you can fuck up all you want, but my people are off limits."

And before anyone can respond, Brendon is gone.

* * *

When Brendon gets back to the Dandy base, still licking blood out of his teeth, Beckett it waiting for him. "I want Pete Wentz dead," he growls.

Brendon pauses. "You look frazzled," he comments.

Beckett growls and stalks towards Brendon, and Brendon hates the way that he can't keep himself from flinching away. "Shut up," he snaps. "I've let you have a loose leash these past few years because you've been _useful_ to me, but annoy me enough and you will be useful no longer."

Brendon can't help the growl that rumbles deep in his throat, which causes Beckett's face to cloud over even more. "Actually, you told me that he was dead, Urie."

 _You're just now realizing this?_ Brendon thinks snarkily. _I told you he was alive days ago._ "I thought he was."

"Then how did you know he was alive?" Beckett questions suspiciously.

"I found him," Brendon says, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"Well find him again," Beckett commands, voice more snarl than words. He jabs his finger into Brendon's chest. "And bring him to me alive—I want to kill him myself. He's evaded me for long enough, and he keeps getting in the fucking way of what I want."

"Stumph?" Brendon guesses.

"They're friends, or something," Beckett grumbles, lips curling up over his teeth, feral and dangerous. Brendon looks away, and he imagines that his neck throbs in the ghost pains of a bite. Powerful as Brendon is, Beckett is still his sire, still holds a degree of control over him. If he truly didn't want Brendon to do something, Brendon wouldn't be able to do it. And then Brendon realizes something. There's no way that Beckett will go along with what Brendon has planned, not once he realizes the scope of what he's going to do. Brendon may be useful to Beckett, but thus far Beckett has also been useful to Brendon. He can't kill him yet; the Dandies would become useless to him.

"I know something we can do that will benefit both of us," Brendon says smoothly, breaking the Dandy leader out of whatever rant he had been spouting.

"And what is that?" The words sound sarcastic, like he doesn't believe Brendon can actually bring anything to the table.

"You want Pete Wentz dead, I want him out of the way; you want Patrick Stumph back in you hands, I want the hunting agencies of the city—starting with Sixteen Candles—to be exterminated."

Beckett's eyes narrow. "What are you saying?"

It's Brendon's turn to smile; he has the advantage again, and that's exactly where he likes to be. "I say we plan a trap."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I swear I have a plan for all of this seemingly-random stuff I keep throwing into this story.  Hopefully all of this made sense lol, like I hope I'm not being _too_ cryptic.  I promise it will all tie together eventually. ;)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, things should start to finally ( _finally_ ) truly pick up. Sorry if this chapter is awkward lol it was really late when I wrote it and it didn't seem to want to end. Nevertheless, enjoy!

 

"Stop moping," Zoe snaps, nudging Pete with her foot.

"M'not _moping_ ," Pete grumbles, shifting on his position on the floor so that he's facing the couch.

"Yes you are," Ryan puts in, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at Pete. He's curled up behind the piece of furniture like that will hide him, which might have been a better idea had the sofa actually been pressed up against the wall. As it is, the couch sits in the middle of the living room and Pete had more collapsed on the floor before he had been able to actually get on it than anything, like making it that extra two feet had been too much for him.

Ryan thinks he gets it, thinks he gets the way he can see how tense Pete is, even when he lies loose and compliant on the ground. Sometimes you just have to lay on the floor and feel small.

There's the sound of an electric razor buzzing to life in the other room, where Lynn has holed herself up. When Ryan had asked what she was doing, she had held up the clippers and grinned, saying something about how the hairdo she'd always wanted wasn't allowed with the Dandy dress code, which Ryan thought was ridiculous; the Clandestines had no such restrictions. As long as you listened to McCoy—and didn't look like a Dandy—you were good to go.

Jon and Ray are out. They had gotten hungry, waiting for Pete, and Ryan and Zoe had stayed behind just in case he came home. He had, messed up and smelling like vampire gangs, the sweet scent of a human wrapped around him, and now he won't talk to them.

"What happened, Pete?" Zoe asks. "Where did you go for three days?"

Pete grumbles and shakes his head. "There's no point," he mutters, not nealy quiet enough for the vampires listening to him to miss his words. "There's no point if he—without him."

"Who?" Ryan asks. "Does this have to do with where you were the past few days?"

"Get off the floor, Pete," Zoe says, not unkindly. "Talk to us."

Pete moves into a sitting position, leaning against the couch, every movement tense and stiff. His face is screwed up in pain. "I think I'm gonna barf," he mumbles.

"Was it really that bad?" Zoe wonders, crouching down next to him. Ryan is thinking the same thing. If whatever happened was so terrible that Pete wants to throw up just thinking about it...

Pete shakes his head. "No, I—" he lets out a long and uncomfortable burp "—I feel sick."

Ryan blinks. Vampires don't get stomach aches, not unless— "Did you eat human food?"

Pete screws his eyes shut, mouth twisting. He bites on his lip, drawing blood that oozes slow and thick and cold from the wound. "I—I guess."

Zoe stands, popping her neck when she does. "You fucking idiot," she mutters. "You _fucking_ idiot. You were with him, weren't you?"

Pete doesn't reply, and Ryan just feels immensely confused. "Who was he with?"

Zoe presses her lips together. "Did he die?"

Pete twitches, and Ryan thinks that whoever he was, he must be dead, but then he says, "No," all in a rush, like it's a relief and a burden all in one. "No, but..."

"Pete, we can't help you if don't actually like, you know, _talk to us_."

The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing is closely followed by Lynn's footsteps. When she enters the living room she looks expectantly at Ryan, who doesn't even register that one side of her head is now shaved, the hair she has left flopped over head messy and long.

"He didn't die," Pete mumbles, eyes still shut like he can't bring himself to look at them. "Not him."

Zoe twitches, impatient. "Pete."

"He wishes I was, though," Pete whispers. "He told me he'd kill me himself. I didn't—I didn't even do anything. I was _helping_ him. It's not my fault that his... _friend_ died."

Ryan thinks that Pete says "friend" far too bitterly for it to be just that. There is too much jealousy in Pete's voice for him to be upset over friendship.

"Who are we talking about?" Lynn asks. She's obviously been able to hear their conversation, even from the other room, but she hasn't been around long enough to know what their conversation has been about. Ryan thinks he knows now, though. He, Zoe, and Ray had talked about it one of the times Pete had come home smelling too much like human.

"Patrick," Pete says miserably. "Patrick."

Ryan doesn't miss the reverent way he says his name, like even though it's bitter on his tongue it's special enough to warrant care. "What happened?"

Pete shakes his head, obviously not wanting to answer. Zoe pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Ryan gets the feeling. Pete is a mess, emotions haywire. While it might be nice to be away from responsibility and the strict structure of the Clandestines, Ryan's not sure that... _this_ , whatever Pete is doing, is much better.

Zoe jerks her head at Ryan and then Lynn in a _let's go talk somewhere else_ gesture _._ "We won't be far," Zoe informs Pete, not waiting to see if Ryan and Lynn follow as she darts into the hallway. Ryan follows half a second later, Lynn hot on his heels.

"Alright," Lynn hisses, voice a mere trickle of air past her lips, mouthing the words more than anything. Anyone walking by would think they were lip reading. "What the hell is going on?"

"He's in love with a human," Zoe says flatly, telling it like it is. Her voice is just as soft. "And it's made him useless."

Lynn looks surprised. "Really? Why doesn't he just go talk to him? It's the Patrick he was talking about, right?" Ryan furrows his brows. Lynn seems to be taking this rather well, when he'd had trouble accepting that Pete was talking to humans in the first place—people are for eating, not befriending.

Zoe snorts, crossing her arms. "Even if it were that simple, which it's _not_ , Patrick is Patrick Stumph. Head of Sixteen Candles Hunting Agency."

Lynn goes quiet. "Oh."

Ryan is silent, mind working. "Well," he says slowly, "obviously Pete did something to majorly piss Patrick Stumph off, and before he did that they were on good terms."

Zoe rolls her eyes in an _obviously_ sort of way.

"And it would be extremely useful to have the biggest hunting agency in the city on our side...or, if nothing else, not trying to actively kill us," Ryan adds.

Lynn tucks her hair behind her ear. "Are you saying...?"

"That we go find this human and drag Pete to him and force them to make up?" Zoe finishes incredulously.

Ryan shrugs. "I'm saying we should do _something_."

"We can't do anything until we know the whole story," Zoe argues.

"Well then we'll get him to tell it to us," Ryan replies, as if it's that simple.

Zoe throws her hands up. "Everything is just so straightforward to you, isn't it?"

"No," Ryan replies, somewhat crossly. "I'm trying to be practical."

"I think Ryan has a point," Lynn puts in. "We can't fix something if we don't know what's broken."

Zoe is silent for a moment. Finally, she shrugs. "I mean...you're right, I guess." Her voice grows harder. "Good luck getting him to tell you, though."

Ryan is a little afraid of Lynn's grin. "I wouldn't be too worried about that. I learned how to be very...persuasive during my time with Beckett."

Zoe makes a face like the name puts a sour taste on her tongue, and Ryan splutters incredulously. "You can't—we're not going to fucking _torture_ Pete!" His eyes flick to Zoe for backup, but she's just looking at Lynn like she's waiting for her to continue. Ryan narrows his eyes at her, and Zoe, catching his eye, shrugs.

"Well then it's a good thing I wasn't planning on torturing him," Lynn retorts, bristling slightly. "Damn, you Clands and your idea that torture is the only way to solve anything."

"That's not true," Zoe hisses, her voice suddenly dangerously low and snake-like. "You're the ones who run rampant around the city and give vampires a bad name."

"At least we have _class_ ," Lynn sniffs.

Ryan doesn't want this to escalate into something they won't be able to come back from, so he puts out his hands, one going to Zoe's shoulder and the other to Lynn's. "Guys."

Zoe pulls back her lip to bare her teeth, but she doesn't say anything else. Lynn shrugs out of Ryan's grip. "Like I said," she not-quite snaps, the lilting accent in her voice getting stronger once she gains control of herself. "I wasn't going to torture him. The Dandies actually know how to use their compel effectively."

"You're not his dame though," Ryan says.

Lynn slides exasperated eyes over to him. "Obviously. But we're much better at it than you are. I'm just stating the facts," she adds, when Zoe starts to bristle again. "We're better than you at it."

"You mean, the Dandies are better than the Clandestines," Ryan says softly. "We're not them anymore."

An unreadable expression flits across Lynn's face. "...Yes."

"I still don't know that this is a good idea," Zoe speaks up. "Just... _forcing_ him to give us information he might not want to give up."

"It wouldn't work anyway," Pete says, from the door, and they all jump.

"Pete," Lynn breathes, "I—"

Pete shakes his head and leans heavily on the doorframe. He rubs the side of his face with a tired hand. "It wouldn't work."

"What?" Ryan asks, "Compelling you?"

"No," Pete confirms. "If I can resist Beckett's compel, then why would you be able to control me?" he asks Lynn.

It's a rhetorical question, but Lynn's mouth drops open and she replies anyway. "You can...you can resist Beckett's compel?" Her eyes narrow. "Who was your sire?"

"What," Pete says more than asks.

"Who turned you into a vampire," Zoe clarifies.

Pete blinks. "Beckett."

Even though she hadn't been moving—or even breathing—in the first place, Lynn goes even more still. "You...what?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you?" Pete snaps. "And I could hear you. You guys aren't as quiet as you think you are."

_Or maybe your hearing is better than we gave you credit for,_ Ryan thinks. If Pete can resist his sire's compel...well, he wouldn't put it past him to have some kind of freaky super hearing too, even for a vampire.

"That's not possible," Lynn breathes, taking a half-step away from Pete. "You shouldn't—you can't—that's impossible."

Pete rubs his eye. "Apparently not." He looks up at the three of them, sighing and stepping to the side to let them past him back into the apartment. "And I'm not going to go talk to Patr...to him."

"You're miserable," Zoe argues.

"I ate food, of course I'm going to be sick." Pete collapses down on the couch when he reaches it.

Ryan sits hesitantly next to him. "Look, Pete," he begins, mulling over his words. "We don't necessarily even want you to go talk to this kid, we just...want to know what happened."

Pete smiles thinly. "You all are insatiable gossips."

Lynn sniffs like she's going to say something to dispute that claim, but when Pete shakes his head at her she falls quiet again.

"And I can tell that you're not going to leave me alone, and..." Pete trails off, gagging slightly before burping again. "Fuck. He's going to need to work on that mixture. Less meat and more blood."

Ryan desperately wants to ask what Pete means, but he manages to hold his tongue, letting Pete say whatever he wants to get out. He's obviously going to tell them... _something_ , and Ryan doesn't want to interrupt him.

"I don't know what Beckett and McCoy are up to," Pete says at last, "but I'm sure it's nothing good."

"Never is," Lynn mutters darkly.

"Beckett wants Patrick though. He thinks..." Pete trails off, like he doesn't want to finish the sentence. "Brendon is up to something," he says instead. "And McCoy too, probably. I don't know how they got into the headquarters without being invited. Nothing...nothing makes sense anymore."

Ryan watches as Pete closes his eyes, notes the exact moment that he seems to fold in on himself in a gesture that screams _I give up_ and _failure_. "Patrick's best friend died." Pete's voice is tiny. Ryan is surprised to hear him keep going—he'd thought that Pete was done. "I think—I know he blames me. He told me himself. Said he wanted to kill me. I think he thinks I've been working with Beckett or something, I dunno. Beckett was being all cryptic and shit about being my _sire_ or whatever the fuck it's called and Patrick must have thought it meant I was working with him."

"Pete," Zoe says softly.

"I killed him for good," Pete continues. "Patrick stabbed Beckett first, and there was vampire blood on the stake when Joe died. He would have woken up a monster and I...I was trying to help him. I was trying to help him." When he repeats the words, they're so soft that Pete's lips hardly even move.

Ryan bites his lip. God, he knew getting involved with humans would be a bad idea. It's the reason he's stayed so far away from them all these years—except for when he got hungry, of course. "Let's take this one thing at a time," he suggests. He doesn't know jack shit about relationship drama, so he latches onto the one part of Pete's revelation that he might actually be able to help him with. "You said that Urie was planning something?" He looks to Lynn as he says this.

The blonde just shrugs. "I don't know anything," she admits. "Urie wasn't exactly the most sharing person. But he _was_ sketchy as hell."

"I don't know what happened to Bren," Pete inputs, miserable. "I don't know what happened to anyone."

"Do you think that Ray and Jon might have found anything out while they were out tonight?" Zoe wonders.

"Yes," Ray answers from behind them. Ryan turns to see the two vampires walk into the living room. Ray heads to Zoe and slips an arm around her waist, taking a deep breath. "When we were out tonight there seemed to be more police presence, except they seemed more concerned with whether we were Dandy or Clandestine than straight-up killing us."

"We think that they might be under Urie's thumb," Jon adds quietly.

Ryan looks between the two of them. "What do you mean?"

"Something's up," Jon says. "Something big. Something soon."

Pete shakes his head, more out of defeat than denial. "I don't want to deal with this."

"Well you're going to have to," Ray snaps. "Because whatever shit's going to go down is going to affect us all, and you're the only one who has ties to humans."

"About that," Zoe says from Ray's side.

Ray looks at her in alarm. "What?"

"It's a tiring story," Pete murmurs.

Ryan mouths a _later_ to Ray and Jon. "What do you think we should do?"

Jon shakes his head. "I don't know, but we need to do something."

Suddenly, Pete sits up, limbs stiff. "Whatever we do," Pete practically growls, "I am not going to talk to Patrick. He made it very clear that he never wants to see me again, and as much as I may want someone to jab a stake into my chest I don't want to give that ass the pleasure of that person being him."

Alarm stabs sharp through Ryan's mind. "Pete?"

"No," Pete spits, "no. I don't care. I'm not going to talk to humans ever again if all it leads to is this bullshit."

Lynn catches Ryan's eye, her expression pure confusion, but it's not like Ryan has any clue what goes on in Pete's head. "We're not asking you to talk to Patrick," Ryan says slowly, not missing the way Pete flinches away from the name. "We just need to see what we're going to do about Urie."

Pete gives him a look, and Ryan swears the mistrust is seeping out of Pete's skin to wrap itself around Ryan's words and turn them to lies where there are none. "Fine," Pete finally agrees.

"Fantastic," Ray says, running a hand through his mass of hair. "We've got a bipolar, can't-lead-for-shit 'leader' and a ragtag group of vampires who don't know what the fuck they're doing. This is going to go _great_."

Ryan can't help but silently agree. He tries to put a positive spin on it in his head— _at least we go together_ —but he can't help but think that it would be better to not go down at all. They're well and truly fucked.

"Well," Lynn says wryly, "we've all already died once, what's the big deal in doing it again? It'll just be a little more permanent this time."

"I've actually died one and a half times," Zoe adds. "And now I'm partially sun proof."

Ryan frowns. That's right, isn't it? Although he's not sure how that's going to help them when the rest of the vampires are only going to be moving about in the dark.

"Penny for your thoughts, Ross?" Jon speaks up.

Ryan shakes his head. "We still don't really know anything, for all the talk we've had."

"We need more information," Pete says.

"Well then let's get some information," Ray says, cracking his knuckles. "I may still have some friends I can call on for some favors."

"Frank doesn't count," Jon retorts.

"I never _said_ I was going to ask Fran—"

"No, that's good," Ryan interrupts. "We need some inside people." He glances to the only ex-Dandy in the room. "Lynn?"

The blonde shrugs. "I may know some people. No one would dare cross Beckett, but there are plenty who I'm sure resent Urie enough to spill some beans." She grins, baring her teeth. "Eventually."

Ryan takes a breath that he doesn't need—old habits die hard. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to find shit out, and we're going to try and fucking take care of Urie for once and all. That kid's caused enough trouble as it is, without some grand plan up his sleeve."

"You realize that we could die trying to do this?" Zoe asks quietly.

Pete smiles, too-sweet and slightly manic. "Well then sugar, at least we'll go down swinging."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while huh? Sorry about that, but I've been focusing all of my energies on my Bandom Big Bang entry, so Sixteen Candles won't be updated again until that's finished. I wasn't originally even going to post this chapter, but it was sitting half-written in Google Docs and gave me puppy dog eyes until I gave in and agreed to stay up until midnight on a school night to finish it smh.
> 
> Anyway, never fear! I have not abandoned this story, nor do I plan to, and I will be back to it in a few months. Until then, I leave you all wondering where the story will continue from here...


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